Night and Day part 2
by bulbus
Summary: Clark and Bruce must put aside their differences to save Smallville from a vicous killer. But can they stop someone who already beat them once?
1. Chapter 1

Smallville: Night and Day By Peter Amico Part II  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Richie stepped out of the forest a few hours before dawn. The moon hung pale and low in the horizon overhead. He stared out over the silent tents and trailers, looking for some sign of life. Normally, circus performers were early risers, with many chores to be done before the day's performance could begin, so there were usually a few people up around this time. But now the circus was quiet; every window seemed to be darkened. Everyone must be still asleep, he thought idly. "Too bad," he muttered to himself and started wading through the field of grass towards the trailers.  
  
The tall grass was crushed underneath his bare feet and fell like they had been threshed whenever his arms brushed by them. Richie didn't understand exactly what had happened to him in the cave, but somehow his entire body had become razor sharp. Just by running his hands along a tree he could carve deep gashes in the trunk. After walking a few miles, he had looked down to discover that his toes had cut the front of his sneakers to ribbons. Thankfully, his jeans were managing to hold, but he had already cut several gashes in them by letting his hands brush against his sides. He'd gotten rid of his shirt back at the stream, but the cold night air didn't bother him. He hardly felt the cold; he could hardly feel anything anymore. His skin might have been sharp, but his sense of touch had been dulled. Still, not a bad trade-off, he considered.  
  
Along Richie's chest were the final changes that his accident had given him. Three, rough circular shapes dotted his upper chest and gut. They were a few inches across in diameter and were a bright green. They looked like scar tissue, but seemed harder, even compared to the rest of him. If nothing else, they made Richie think of the small, green spike he had pulled from the cave floor he had fallen on. He figured they'd had something to do with his transformation, but whatever they were was beyond him and hardly mattered. He had bigger fish to fry.  
  
Richie slowed as he came to the first row of trailers and kept to the shadows. He edged past them silently and continued on, picking his way through the trailers expertly. How long had it been since he'd been chased out of here, he asked himself. He cleared the next row and started to hurry, in spite of himself. Not too long ago, he thought. Richie caught sight of the trailer he wanted and hurried towards it, forsaking the shadows and simply running towards it. How long had he put up with everything that life had thrown his way, he asked himself again. Richie flung himself into the darkness by the trailer's side and waited, listening intently. He heard nothing and smiled, licking his lips in excitement. Too long, he answered himself again.  
  
The door was locked, but that was hardly a problem now. He put his fingers around the lock and pressed them in while turning his hand. His fingers cut a neat hole through the metal and the lock fell with a clank inside. Richie paused, listening again. From inside, he could hear a rough snoring echoing softly. Turning the handle slowly, Richie inched the door open. He slipped inside without a sound and closed it behind him. Then he paused and stared at his father, sprawled asleep at their tiny table.  
  
Richie was somewhat surprised to discover that the first thing he felt when he saw his father wasn't anger, but wonder. He looked so small and pathetic lying there, surrounded by beer cans and a plate of untouched food. His father had always seemed so large, foreboding to him, seeing him now, he hardly seemed the same person. His hair was filthy and matted with dirt, his clothes were filthy, this from the man who could never stand a spot of dirt in his home. Richie smiled and snagged an unopened beer can from the pile and sat down across from his father. Holding it as gently as possible in his hands, he tried to hook his fingers around the tab, but they couldn't catch anymore. Finally, he simply stabbed one finger into the top and took a long drink. He drained it in two gulps and reached for another, realizing how thirsty he was all of a sudden. He half-drained this one, and after a moment's pause, quietly grabbed the plate of food by his father. He ate quickly, watching his father sleep, half-expecting him to wake up, but he didn't. He slept soundly as Richie devoured the rest of his meal.  
  
When the food was gone, Richie took a last drink and set the can aside. He reached for his father, but stopped suddenly. His hand hung a few inches from his father as Richie watched him sleep for another moment. It was the first time he had ever seen his father look so calm, he realized. He gently prodded his father's shoulder, taking care not to cut him in the process. "Dad. Dad," he called softly to him. His father grunted and opened his eyes, lifting his head off his arms. He blinked slowly, looking around the trailer. Then his gaze fell across Richie and he looked at him in astonishment.  
  
"Richie?" he asked quietly, almost in disbelief.  
  
Richie nodded. "Yeah, Dad," he said quietly. "I'm home." Then he backhanded his father across the face, sending him tumbling out his chair and across the room. He screamed as Richie's fingers cut him to the bone, and then he clamped his hands to his face to hold back the bleeding. He wasn't very successful. Richie looked down at the blood on his hand and then up at his father. "I'd ask how it feels, but I already know," he said quietly and stood up. His father tried to crawl away, keeping one hand against his face, but he kept collapsing against the floor and wall. He left bright red smears against everything he touched. Richie followed him and was struck with wonder again. This was his father? "You almost don't seem worth it anymore," he muttered. He slashed his hands across his father's back, making him scream in agony. Roger collapsed to the floor, his legs kicking spasmodically behind him as he tried to pull himself away with his hands. He was calling loudly, screaming, begging for help, but that just made it worse.  
  
"Please," he gurgled, looking back up at his son. "Please."  
  
"How many times did I say that?" Richie barked at him. "How many times?" he said, slashing his father again. "How many?" He kept slashing as his father lay there screaming. He kept going long after it was necessary.  
  
Richie stopped finally and backed up, something burning in the back of his throat. He stared down at the mess at his feet and then shuffled away, his mind almost blank. He grabbed another beer and drained it dry, staring absently at the kitchen wall. Slowly, noises from the outside started to sift through to him. He could hear people outside, crowding around the trailer. They must have heard the screams. Of course they'd heard the screams, he berated himself. The old fool hadn't gone quietly, he had begged and screamed. And they had heard, and had come to help. "What to do?" he muttered. "No one ever came to help me," he noted after a moment's thought. He put the can down and turned towards the door. "Why not?"  
  
"So you've had these powers since birth?" Bruce asked again and Clark nodded glumly. He stared out the window of Bruce's car, watching the fields of Smallville pass by. Bruce Wayne might have been as rich as Lex Luthor, but his taste in cars was certainly lacking. Bruce drove a nondescript sedan, packed with duffle bags in the backseat. Bruce had opened one up before they had left the old factory and had quietly taken out a pile of medical supplies. Then with the same silence and quick movements that he'd shown at the fair, he had bandaged up his bruised cheek and cut shoulder. It was all Clark could do to watch Bruce stitch up his own wound. Then it had all gone back in the bag and he had climbed into the driver's seat. Bruce had opened the passenger door from the inside and had looked at Clark. "Get in," was all he had said.  
  
"I told you this already," Clark said, frustrated. "How about telling me what you were doing there? Besides getting yourself almost killed."  
  
"What exactly can you do?" Bruce asked him.  
  
Clark took a deep breath and fought to keep his temper. "Why were you there?" he asked. Two could play that game.  
  
Bruce drove silently for a moment, staring out the front. "I found out where and when the car thieves were going to meet the buyers, and I went to stop them," he said slowly, as if he were explaining it to a child.  
  
"Why didn't you just call the police?"  
  
"Smallville's finest?" Bruce said with a half-smile. "They weren't exactly that fast on the scene last night, so why now? Besides, these guys were out of their league, they'd just have gotten people killed."  
  
"Weren't they a little out of your league too?" Clark asked pointedly. Bruce frowned and was silent. "I mean, these guys tried to kill us both tonight, and they would've gotten you if I hadn't been there. Maybe you don't realize, but these guys are killers. Do you understand what that means?" Clark asked.  
  
Bruce slammed on the brakes sending the car into a screeching stop. Clark pitched forwards in his seat, but Bruce grabbed his shirt tightly in his fist, yanking him back. His face was like a piece of stone as he stared at him. "Let's get one thing straight, Clark," he said quietly in that low, gravely voice. "I didn't ask for your help. I don't need your help. If you get in my way, I'll show you exactly what I can do. Are we clear?" Clark nodded and pushed himself away. Bruce stared at him for a moment and started driving again. For a long while, they didn't speak.  
  
Finally, as they pulled up the road towards the circus, Bruce spoke. "Don't be upset, I'll be gone soon," he promised Clark.  
  
"I'm not upset," Clark said stonily. Bruce smiled that maddening half- smile of his and shook his head slightly. "Are you going to give me a ride back home at least?" Clark asked.  
  
"No."  
  
"Fine, I'll get home on my own," he muttered. He glanced out the front windshield and suddenly his eyes widened. "Watch out," he yelled and yanked the steering wheel to one side. Bruce swore as the car pitched to the right and narrowly dodged a man who had lurched onto the road. Clark let go of the wheel and stared back at the man as Bruce fought to get the car back under control. The car fishtailed back and forth, but finally slowed and stopped. They both sprang out of the car and started back for the man.  
  
"How did you see him?" Bruce asked as they ran.  
  
"I've got better vision than you do," Clark said quickly. Bruce muttered something under his breath that Clark pretended not to hear. They found the man pretty much were they had passed him, staggering down the side of the road. He was shivering in the night air, only dressed in an undershirt and boxers. "Are you okay?" Clark asked quickly. The man slowly collapsed to his knees, shaking and crying horribly. He was rubbing his hands together incessantly, almost wringing them. As he looked closer, Clark saw why he was crying. The man's palms were badly cut up and oozing blood. Bruce leaned down next to him and took hold of the man's shoulders.  
  
"We'll get you back to the car and get help," he promised in a low voice. The man let himself by guided to the car, sobbing softly. "His name's Lazlo," Bruce said quietly to Clark, "he works at the circus. Lazlo, what happened?"  
  
Lazlo moaned and shook his head. Bruce had him sit down inside the car as he grabbed the medical bag from the backseat. He wrapped a quick bandage around his hands as he asked again, "What happened. Lazlo, look at me. You have to tell what happened."  
  
"It was Richie," Lazlo finally sobbed. He stared at his hands in his laps and then looked up at Clark and Bruce. Clark had never seen someone look that terrified in his life. "Richie came back and killed Roger. We heard him screaming and tried to help, but he started. " his voice broke off and he sobbed again. "He wasn't fighting us, God, he was killing us," he breathed. "We couldn't fight back at all. He just slaughtered everyone. Oh God." he broke down again.  
  
Clark stared at him then looked up at Bruce. "Who's Richie, the kid who got lost?"  
  
Bruce nodded and looked down the road towards the circus. "Lazlo, what happened to Richie?" he asked intently then. "Is he still there? What happened to him?"  
  
Lazlo shook his head back and forth, crying. "I don't know. He was just killing people. I tried to stop him, but look what happened," he said, holding up his hands. "I only grabbed his shoulder," he whispered. Bruce slowly pushed him back and he lay down inside the car, still crying. Then Bruce whipped out his cell phone and started to dial.  
  
"I'll get the police and an ambulance here," he yelled. "You better-"  
  
"I'm on it," Clark yelled and took off running. He sped away from Bruce in a blur of motion. Bruce stared at where he had been for a second and then cursed and almost pitched his phone away. He looked off down the road then back into the car at Lazlo and tried to decide what he was going to do. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
  
Clark covered the distance to the circus in a few seconds time, but as he slowed to a stop at the border of the field, he knew he was already too late. He froze at the edge of the field and felt himself still. It was like his mind and body stopped working for a moment, and all that he could do was see. The field lay full of the dead or dying. They were scattered in clumps; ringed with blood and gore; none looked like they were sleeping. There were times that Clark enjoyed having better vision, hearing, and smell, and he had thought that there had been times when he had hated them; but this was the first time he discovered how truly horrible they could be.  
  
Bile rose in his throat, and he turned to the side and retched. When he was done, he blinked away tears and staggered through the fields, trying not to hear the grass squelch underneath his feet. Doors swung haphazardly on abandoned trailers, the lights from inside lighting up the night. He hurried on, looking desperately for some survivors. A feeble, old woman shook on the ground, her back horribly mutilated. Clark knelt beside her and tried to say something. She clutched his hands and opened her mouth, but nothing came. Two great tears rolled down her eyes as she stared at Clark. "We'll get help, alright." Clark finally spoke. "We'll get you to a hospital and you'll be." he tried to promise, but she didn't hear him. Her heart had stopped, one look told him. He held her for a moment and then hugged her desperately. "All this power." he muttered and sobbed. Finally he let her go and slowly stood up. There might be others still alive, he told himself firmly; help them.  
  
The farther Clark walked through the trailers, the worse the bodies seemed to pile up. People were slashed and torn up, cut to pieces in some cases. Some looked like they had stood and fought, others had died on their knees. Clark turned a corner and saw a sight that seemed to sear itself into his mind. A young girl lay on the ground, alive but covered by the corpse of a woman, her mother, he presumed. Her eyes were wide with shock and horror, but she didn't scream out. She fought desperately to get out from underneath the body, but couldn't manage it. Clark rushed forward and pulled her mother off of her, feeling his guts churn as she hit the grass. The girl launched herself at him, holding onto him tightly. He hugged her back, trying to quiet her shivering body. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whispered to her.  
  
He glanced around quickly, staring through the trailers using his x-ray vision. The walls of the world fell away as Clark looked for a good trailer to hide her in. He found more than what he was looking for. There were people in a trailer to the right of him, alive and hiding in the back end. Clark picked her up gently and hurried over, knocking quietly on the door. "I'm here to help, open up," he said quietly. Nothing happened and Clark took another glimpse inside. One person had risen to let them in, but the others were waving him back. Growing impatient, Clark opened the door, the lock bursting as he did so. He quickly lifted the girl inside and put her down. He glanced at the people inside, who looked back, terrified. "Stay here," he hissed at them. "Help's on the way soon," he promised. He closed the door quickly and then twisted the metal frame of the door together so it couldn't be opened again without a crowbar. He started off, when he heard a scream farther down the field. He rushed off at top speed and came to a stop less than a second later. He'd found Richie.  
  
Richie was thin, bone thin, and all angles as Clark looked at him for the first time. His face was an ugly sneer that was sandwiched in between a pair of cheekbones that looked like razors. He was barefoot and shirtless, and as he turned to him, Clark saw the three holes in his chest and how they glowed green. And as they did, Clark felt that now familiar lurch in his stomach. The headache started immediately and he began to sweat. The meteor rocks, without a doubt, the meteor rocks had done this to Richie, and they had left their taint in him. "Who do we have here?" Richie said, looking at Clark. He waved a bloody hand in the air and shook his head. There was a girl behind Richie, holding onto an older man who lay unconscious on the ground. It took a moment, but he finally recognized them as Gail and her father. Gail was terrified, but still unhurt, unlike her father. Blood was smeared across his forehead, but he still appeared to be breathing.  
  
"Get away from them," Clark demanded, trying to fight back the nausea. The world tilted and swayed under his feet, and he almost lost his balance.  
  
Richie laughed and advanced towards him. "You think you can make me do anything?" he asked quietly. His fingers seemed to gleam in the light as he held them up. Clark's stomach rolled as he noticed they were stained red and pointed like spikes. "No one tells me anything anymore," Richie said and swung at Clark. He was fast, but Clark was already falling away from him. He wished he could have said he had planned it that way. The sickness was so bad it was almost impossible to keep his balance anymore. He scrambled away on all fours and pulled himself up against a trailer. Richie snarled and lunged again, but this time, Clark was ready. He hooked his fingers in the trailer wall and ripped a chunk of it out like it was cardboard. He swung and hit Richie just as he was in mid-leap. Richie grunted and fell to the ground, holding his stomach.  
  
Dropping the chunk of wall, Clark started towards Gail until Richie rolled to his feet behind him. He ran at Clark, swiping his hands towards him. Clark jumped awkwardly back, not fast enough this time, and felt a hot streak of pain down his side. He clamped a hand to his ribs and pulled it back, staring in disbelief at the blood on it. Richie had cut him. Clark stumbled backwards, holding his side. He'd never been hurt this bad in his life. Richie stalked around him like a beast, snarling with his deadly hands outstretched. Clark fought back the sickness and tried to get himself ready for another rush.  
  
Suddenly, behind Richie, a car engine roared into life. They all turned as a bright pair of headlights raced towards them across the field. Clark jumped aside as the car plowed right into Richie, imbedding him in the hood and dragging him along with it. The car careened out of control and slammed head-first into the side of a trailer. Almost immediately, with the meteor rocks blocked by a half ton of metal, the sickness faded from Clark and he stood up, wincing as the pain returned in his side. He hobbled over to the wreck, but jumped back when the driver's door was kicked out. Bruce slowly climbed out the side and staggered over to Clark. He looked back at the car and Clark was surprised to see fear in his eyes.  
  
"Oh, God," he breathed, "I didn't mean to kill him. I thought he would go flying when I hit him, not stick in the front hood."  
  
"You didn't know," Clark said, winching as did. "It's not your fault."  
  
Bruce didn't answer. He looked around the field, taking in all the carnage at once. His eyes widened and his face froze up in shock. "Oh no." he whispered. "Oh, no. please not again. Not again." Clark stared at him and started to say something when Bruce suddenly shook his head and turned away. "We have to find survivors," he barked harshly to Clark, keeping his back to him. "I passed more people on the road; some more have to have gotten away."  
  
"Gail and her father are back there," Clark said, motioning back with his hand. "Richie was going after them when I found." his voice trailed off as he heard a low tearing sound. He and Bruce both froze, as the sound grew louder. Slowly, they turned around to see two hands emerge from the wreck. The sound grew louder as the car was pushed backwards out of the trailer. There was a sudden screech of metal, and the front hood tore in two, right up the middle. Slowly, Richie emerged from the wreck, clawing his way out of the debris. He fell over the side of the car and then got to his feet, hunched over and holding his stomach. Clark swayed on his feet as the meteor rocks' power came back in full force. Richie straightened and let go of his stomach, revealing a huge spider web of cracks and nicks across his chest.  
  
"Tom," his voice grated, "that really hurt." He coughed and spit out a wad of something, swaying unsteady on his feet. His eyes were locked on Bruce though, who stood grim faced and resolute. Clark tried to say something, but his voice failed him. He looked down at his side and was shocked to see that his right pant leg was soaked in blood.  
  
"Good," Bruce said slowly, his voice back in that low pitch. He shifted into a fighting stance and snarled. "If you think you can take more, you'll get it," he promised. Richie laughed and limped towards him, his hands flexing by his sides eagerly. Clark tried to move in front of Bruce, but his legs gave out and he fell to his knees. Bruce glanced back at him and then focused on Richie, unafraid. A half-smile played around the corner of his mouth as he waited for him.  
  
Richie lunged straight at Bruce, like he had with Clark, but Bruce rose up to meet him. He leapt; foot extended and planted it square in the middle of Richie's face. Bruce rolled away as Richie clawed at him, his fingers missing Bruce by inches. Bruce ducked under another swipe and kicked him solidly in the stomach. Richie grunted and tried to grab Bruce, but he dropped and kicked his feet out from underneath him. Richie rolled away this time, climbing to his feet slowly. He snarled at Bruce and advanced slowly back towards him. Bruce waited patiently, almost looking amused.  
  
This time Richie didn't come out swinging. He stalked closer to Bruce, hands ready and outstretched, but he didn't swing. Bruce let him circle, turning to face him each time. Richie fainted a few times, and then slashed at Bruce with his right. Bruce dodged it and kicked Richie across the gut again, but this time, Richie didn't double over. He took the blow and swiped at Bruce with his left. Bruce jumped back, but still was cut on his shoulder, the same shoulder that had been cut earlier. He didn't flinch or cry out, but as blood ran down from it, his face grew serious. Richie swiped at him again, and Bruce jumped inside, blocking it, and then he smashed his fist across Richie's nose. There was a loud snap and Richie clawed at Bruce in anger and pain. He grabbed his shoulders, but Bruce pulled his legs up and drop kicked him in the stomach, making Richie drop him. He rolled away, bleeding from a half a dozen different places. An ugly gash ran across the hand he'd broken Richie's nose with. Bruce moved back into a fighting stance, but he trembled as he did so. Clark watched in desperation from where he knelt. Bruce wasn't going to win.  
  
Richie saw it to and laughed horribly. He rubbed his nose gingerly and glared at Bruce. "How long are you going to keep this up?" he asked him quietly. "You can hit me all you want, Tom; it's not going to matter. Ramming a car into me didn't work, you foot sure isn't going to make much of a-" he stopped as Bruce leapt straight for him and kicked him solidly in the throat. Richie staggered back, gasping for air as Bruce circled around behind him. He smashed his heel into the back of Richie's leg, but Richie didn't fall. Bruce drove his knee into the small of his back, but Richie still didn't go down. Throwing all finesse aside, Bruce rained down punches into his kidneys. Richie took every one, still fighting for air. Finally, Bruce backed away, his knuckles swollen and bloody. Richie slowly straightened and turned around. "Tha.that," he choked out, "that all. ya got?"  
  
Bruce screamed and launched himself at Richie once more. Richie reached for him, his fingers glittering in the night, when there was a loud shot. A small piece of Richie's arm exploded and flew off into the night. Everyone froze and looked to the source. Police cars were barreling down the road to the circus. Four officers were already charging towards them, guns drawn. "Everyone down," one of the officers screamed as they advanced.  
  
"He's unarmed, rush him," another yelled and threw himself at Richie.  
  
"No!" Clark shouted, trying to climb to his feet. Richie extended his arms and the police officer impaled himself on them. Richie kicked him off as the other officers yelled and opened fire. Bullets ricocheted off Richie's body, breaking off small chips of his skin on impact. He yelled in pain and stumbled back, trying to find cover. The officers kept firing, trying to bring him down. Finally, Richie turned and fled, dodging in and out of the trailers.  
  
As Richie got further and further away, Clark was slowly able to stand. He was dizzy, wounded, and still very weak, but he could at least move now. He looked around for Bruce and found him hunched over nearby. Clark staggered over to him and Bruce looked up, his face pale, but his eyes intense and determined. "Go after him," he muttered. "You've got to go after him. He can't get away."  
  
"The police will-" Clark tried to say, but Bruce swung his arm savagely at him.  
  
"Police can't catch him," he yelled. "I've got to do it. We." he slowed and blinked, his head bobbing uncertainly.  
  
"We've got to get you to a hospital," Clark said, looking at Bruce's wounds. He was bleeding for over a dozen cuts all over his body.  
  
"Can't, no time," Bruce muttered and grabbed Clark's arm. "Take me after him," he demanded. Sirens were screaming in Clark's ears now as police cars roared into the lot. "Now." Bruce almost pleaded. Clark stared back at him and dumbly shook his head. He took off running as fast as he could, with the wound in his side biting him every step of the way. Bruce was left with only a piece of Clark's shirt in his hands, torn away as he left. Police officers swarmed around him then, flashing lights filling up the night's sky. 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
  
Martha and Jonathon Kent were lying down in bed when a loud crash woke them up with a start. "What in the world?" Martha said, climbing out of bed. She pulled her robe from the closet and wrapped it around herself. "Do you think it might be Clark?" she asked her husband. Jonathon gave her a worried shrug and hurried into the hall. He listened intently from the top of the stairs. From downstairs, he could hear the sound of someone rummaging around. Worried, he opened the hall closet and quickly reached up and inside the doorframe. He pulled a shotgun down and swiftly clicked it open. Jonathon glanced at Martha, who grabbed a key off their dresser and hurriedly unlocked one of the drawers. She pulled out a small box of shells and tossed it to him. Catching it with one hand, he started to load up the gun.  
  
"Can't be certain," Jonathon said quietly. He finished and held it up, ready. Inching his way down the steps, one at a time, he made his way downstairs. Martha followed after him, brandishing a darkened flashlight like it was a club. The both paused at the bottom to see the remains of their door lying smashed and broken at their feet. There was a small trail of blood that led from it into the kitchen. Eyes wide with fear, they followed it around and crouched by the wall nearest the kitchen. Past it, they could hear someone moving around quietly. Suddenly there was the sound of running water and some splashing. They paused, looked at each other and then sprang out together. Jonathon held the gun out, ready to fire as Martha switched on the flashlight.  
  
"Clark!" they both said in astonishment as they saw who it was. He was sitting up on the kitchen counter, running his shirt under the cold water. The water that dripped down from it was pale red.  
  
"What are you guys doing up?" Clark said lamely. He tried to laugh, but winced as his side cried out from the effort.  
  
"What happened to you?" his mother asked, rushing up and throwing her arms around him. "You're covered with sweat and- oh, my God," she exclaimed, "you're bleeding! What happened, it looks like you got stabbed!"  
  
"I'll call 911," his dad said and reached for the phone.  
  
"No!" Clark yelled. "I came back here to keep from ending up in the hospital," he said. "Can't let them examine me, especially when I'm bleeding like this. What happens if someone runs some tests on me? Who knows what they'd find."  
  
"Right, sorry," his father nodded. "Well, then we'll have to take care of that here." He put the shotgun down and grabbed Clark's shirt. "Martha, better grab the medical kit from upstairs," he said. She nodded and hurried back up the stairs. Jonathon pressed the wet shirt against Clark's side. Clark winced and sucked in his breath slightly.  
  
"I didn't think anything could cut you," his father muttered. "I can't even remember you ever skinning your knees."  
  
"I think I could definitely do without it," Clark winced again. Martha hurried back into the kitchen, robe flying out behind her.  
  
"Here," she said, popping the case open and removing bandages and iodine. "This is going to sting," she warned him, soaking up a bandage with the iodine. Clark nodded and braced himself as she pressed it into his side.  
  
"Ow. ow.ow. OW!" Clark cried out as she wiped the wound clean. "I think you got it!" he said and leaned away from her. She smiled a little and started to clean up the area around the cut.  
  
"Clark," his father asked, "just what happened? You left with Lana hours ago."  
  
"Is she alright?" his mother asked, concerned.  
  
"She's fine," Clark assured her. "It's a long story," he said quietly. Slowly he filled them in on everything that had happened that night. He told them about the search at the circus, following Bruce, getting shot at, and then returning to find that Richie had slaughtered half the circus. By the end, his mother was pale with worry and fright. His father leaned against the counter, shaking his head in disbelief.  
  
"All those people," Martha murmured. "How could one boy become a monster like that overnight?"  
  
"The meteor rocks," Clark said. "He had them embedded in him, I saw them. They must have changed him."  
  
"But did they make him kill all those people?" Jonathon asked Clark pointedly.  
  
Clark stared at him then shook his head slowly. "No, I guess not."  
  
"Clark, son, I know you," Jonathon said. "Right now you feel that you're responsible in some way for what this boy did. How can you be? Did you force him to kill those people? He chose to do that himself. He's the only one to blame."  
  
"But still, I brought those rocks here," Clark said.  
  
"How?" his father asked him. "They weren't packed in with you on the rocket. They fell with you. It could have been an accident that they arrived here at all."  
  
"Right," his mother agreed. "You're not responsible for everything that has happened in this town since the meteor shower." Clark nodded, a little ashamed of himself. "Well, in the meantime," his mother stated, "what are we going to do about Bruce Wayne?"  
  
"He knows about your powers," Jonathon remarked. "There's not much we can do, I suppose. If he goes to the papers."  
  
"He won't," Clark said confidently. "If he did, I would have to tell them about what he does at night, but he won't tell. I don't know how, but I know."  
  
"We should call the hospital," Martha said. "See if he's alright."  
  
"Better leave him till morning," Clark said. "He's probably pretty mad at me right now." Then Clark thought of something and jumped down from the counter. He hobbled over to the phone and started dialing.  
  
"Clark, what's wrong?" his father asked.  
  
"I'm going to call Chloe and tell her about this. I don't want her to find out about me, but I need her to do some research." The phone rang on the other end, and then a groggy voice answered.  
  
"Hello," Chloe's voice was flat and a bit angry. "What?"  
  
"Chloe, it's me," Clark said quickly. "Something happened tonight at the circus," he started, sketching in the bared details to her, leaving out the parts about his powers. By the time he was halfway through explaining, Chloe had come alive over the phone. He could practically hear her scribbling down on a pad of paper all the details. "Can you meet me at the hospital tomorrow at eight?" he asked at the end. "I think that's the start of visiting hours."  
  
"Are you kidding? I'll be outside waiting at seven. See you then, Clark." She hung up and Clark put the phone back.  
  
"I really think you should get some rest, Clark," his mother said. "You've lost a lot of blood and you're not really used to being hurt and everything."  
  
"I can't," he said firmly, "I have to take care of this."  
  
"You can't go looking for that boy now, the police are probably swarming through the forest, looking for him," he said quietly. "Besides, son, unless you have some sort of plan, I don't think you're going to do any better than before."  
  
Clark grimaced and touched his side briefly, wincing again. Pain was a new sensation to him and he didn't think he enjoyed it very much.  
  
"You're better off waiting for tomorrow," his mother told him. "You need to rest first. Maybe you'll think of something."  
  
"Alright," he said reluctantly. His parents sighed in relief. Smiling, his mother took his arm and helped him up the stairs.  
  
"We'll wake you up at seven so you can get going, but now you've got to get some rest." Clark smiled and nodded as he was led into his room.  
  
He didn't see how he was going to sleep after tonight. Yet as soon as he lay down on the bed, he seemed to hear someone knocking on his door. Clark sat up; stunned to find that it was dawn. He turned a little and his side cried out again, kicking the cobwebs from his head. He prodded his bandage experimentally, and then slowly got to his feet.  
  
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, Clark hobbled downstairs. His mother was waiting in the kitchen with a steaming platter of eggs and bacon. "All of it," she demanded, thrusting it at him. "Every last bit, you need your strength." Clark stared the heaping platter and looked at his father for help. Jonathon sat at the table, watching the two over the edge of The Smallville Ledger.  
  
"Don't look at me," he said quickly and raised the paper in front of his face. Helpless, Clark took the plate and sat down, shoveling down the food as quickly as he could.  
  
In between bites, he asked, "Is there anything in there about last night?"  
  
His father nodded and turned over the paper so he could see. The headlines read, 'Youth on Rampage at Circus'. "It says that apparently this Richard Telebaum went on a killing spree," Jonathon said, reading bits of the story back to him. "'Details are sketchy about the extent of the damage. Victims appeared to be badly slashed or impaled. Rushed to Saint Mary's Hospital. Escaped police custody..." He put down the paper and rubbed his forehead. "I still find it hard to believe that all this could happen in one night."  
  
"Tell me about it," Clark said, touching his bandaged side again. As he ate, he quickly scanned the rest of the article. There was no word yet of how many people had been killed or what had happened after police had arrived, but it had been clear that the body count would be high. "They don't say what happened to him," Clark mumbled, rereading the article. "Eluded capture. If he ran, where was he headed?"  
  
"They might not know, Clark," Martha pointed out. "And even if they did, I don't know if the papers would print it, might cause a panic."  
  
"If he was headed this way," Jonathon said, "I'd certainly want to know." Clark nodded and kept eating, going over the article for a third time, seeing if he'd missed anything. While he was doing so, the clock on the wall chimed once. Clark dropped his fork and stared at it.  
  
"7:45!" he said, "geez, I'm going to be late."  
  
His father got up. "Here, I'll drive you out to the hospital."  
  
Clark shook his head. "No, it'll be quicker if I run." He swung a jacket over his shoulders and started out the door, stepping over the remains of they're screen door in the process. "Uhh, sorry about that last night," he said, eying the wreck.  
  
"Forget about it," his dad said, coming to the doorway. His mother stood next to him, rubbing her arms in the crisp morning air.  
  
"Be careful," she called out to him. Jonathon hugged her close and whispered something in her ear.  
  
"I will," Clark said, waving back at them. Then he turned around and was gone in a blur of motion. The dust kicked up at his heels obscuring the road for a second. When it died down, Clark was standing at the end of the lane, gripping the fence post tightly with one hand, the other clutching his side. His parents ran out of the house and down the road towards him. When they reached him, Clark stared up at them, trying to grin through the pain. "Ummm." he said slowly. "I don't suppose I could take you up on that ride?" he asked his dad.  
  
The ride from the farm to Saint Mary's took only twenty minutes, but by the time Clark and his father drove up, they could see Chloe pacing outside the entrance, looking like she had been waiting for hours. When she saw the car approach, she hurriedly picked up her backpack and stood anxiously. "Hi, Mr. Kent," she said quickly, then "Clark, where have you been?" she demanded. Clark slowly climbed from the truck and looked at her. Chloe looked like she had been up all night; there were deep lines under her eyes and her hair seemed to go off in all directions at the end. She was wearing bulky sweater that almost came to her knees.  
  
"Thanks for meeting me, Chloe. Late night?" he asked, looking at her again.  
  
"Are you serious," she said, pulling him away from the truck. "This is the first real evidence that there is something definitely wrong with this town. We've got proof now." Clark waved as his dad pulled away in the truck, and then turned back to Chloe.  
  
"Evidence? What about all the other things? Your 'Wall of Weird'?"  
  
"Yes, they were all true," she said waving her hand, "but no one ever believed them! This is in the papers though, the real ones, not just the Inquisitor. The Daily Planet's got a truck camped out on the other side of the hospital, waiting to interview people. And," she said quietly, leading him inside the hospital, "you can imagine what'll happen if they hear that Bruce Wayne's here."  
  
"Does the hospital know who he is?" Clark asked quickly.  
  
"No, he gave that other name, Tom Mallone," she said. "They've got him upstairs in room 321, apparently under sedation."  
  
"Sedation?"  
  
Chloe nodded and looked away awkwardly. "Seems he didn't want to stay put. And he tried to attack a few orderlies when they restrained him. To tell you the truth, I sorta didn't believe what you said about him until I heard that."  
  
"Yeah," Clark agreed, "it's kinda strange, but he's not a bit like he pretends to be. Remember that guy you met yesterday at the Beanery? Forget him, he doesn't exist. I don't know who Bruce Wayne really is." Chloe shook her head and stared down for a second. Clark suddenly thought of something and turned to her again. "Chloe, how did you find all this out? I thought visiting hours started like five minutes ago." Chloe turned red and mumbled something. "What?" Clark asked. Finally, she pulled up her sweater to reveal a pin-striped dress underneath.  
  
"Satisfied," she said quickly, shoving it back down.  
  
"A Candy-Striper?" Clark laughed out loud. "Where'd you find it?"  
  
"It was my sister's," Chloe admitted, "I just borrowed it so I could sneak in here early. Didn't work out totally like I thought though, they sorta made me work."  
  
"Great reporters have to make sacrifices," Clark said stoically.  
  
Chloe nodded as they walked through the lobby. She led him quickly to the elevator and then pushed the third floor button. "Oh, I called Pete in on this," she told him. "He's going to be doing a bit of research on our friend Mr. Wayne, and we're going to meet him in the newsroom at eleven. Something about Bruce doesn't make any sense, and I'm going to find out what."  
  
"Something?" Clark asked. "Try a lot. First he's the picture of a spoiled brat, rich and bored out his skull, next he's risking his life hunting down car thieves and getting shot at. And you should have seen him fight, it was like watching a Chow Yun Fat movie." Clark paused and looked at Chloe. "Do they know yet how many people."  
  
Chloe nodded, biting her lip softly. "Yeah, the tally was finished this morning. "Thirty three people," she said quietly. "Four of them were cops." The elevator door opened and Chloe stepped out. Clark followed her slowly, thinking it over in his head.  
  
"Thirty three people," he muttered in disbelief. "Do they know anything about where he is?" She shook her head sadly.  
  
"I checked the police band before I came here, and they hadn't found him yet. They think he's hiding in the woods, so they're trying to organize a search." Clark stared off for a moment, rubbing his side gently.  
  
"I hope they don't find him," he muttered. "The police can't handle someone like him." Chloe stared at him and came closer.  
  
"Clark, what's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing," Clark said quickly, putting his arm down. "I just got a little too close to the action last night and I'm still feeling some of the bruises."  
  
"Well, be more careful next time," she told him. "You leave the dangerous stuff to the people who can handle it next time: us journalists." He smiled at her and nodded. "I mean it, Clark," she said again. "You always seem to be in the middle of this, and one of these days, you're really going to get hurt. You're not indestructible, you know." Clark touched his side again and nodded.  
  
"I think I know what you mean," he muttered.  
  
The third floor seemed to be running over with patients. Not a few people were lying on benches in the hall, cradling bandaged arms and legs. They were all conscious and in a lot of pain. A few were crying softly to themselves, while others tried to comfort them as best they could. "There's so many of them," Clark said quietly, staring down the hall. "I thought you said the count was thirty three?'  
  
"That was people dead, Clark," Chloe whispered back. "More people than that were wounded; most of them just as they were trying to escape. I don't think anyone but Bruce survived going face to face with him." Clark thought back to the way Richie's fingers had gleamed like knives last night. How easily he had cut his way out of that car, into Clark.  
  
"I'm surprised we did," he said.  
  
"That's right," Chloe noted. "He saved you didn't he? I guess you owe him you're life." Clark grumbled something and Chloe laughed. "Too much for you to admit, huh? That's okay." They came to the door marked 321, and Chloe stared down the hall in both directions. "Okay, I think it's clear." She opened the door quickly and they slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
  
Bruce was lying on the bed, strapped into it, to be more accurate. He had been placed in a straightjacket and lashed down on the bed for good measure. A small tray was by the bed, holding a cup of pills and a glass of water. He stared at them, his eyes bloodshot and his hair a mess. "Get me out of here, Clark," he stated, biting off words one at a time.  
  
"Easy there," Chloe said and went his bedside. She started undoing the lashes on the bed-frame, struggling with the straps. Clark stepped back and folded his arms, watching Bruce.  
  
"Can't you get out of these by yourself?" Clark asked. "I thought that was your specialty at the show."  
  
"Not when I'm lashed down to the damn bed," Bruce yelled, and thrashed around wildly. Chloe backed up as he struggled against the restraints. "Get me out of here," Bruce repeated, falling back on the bed.  
  
"So now you want my help," Clark remarked. Bruce's eyes went wide, then narrowed down to slits. He stared at him and in spite of himself, Clark shivered.  
  
"Richie's still out there," Bruce said finally. "You need to realize something about that: the longer he's on the run, the more desperate he'll get. Someone has to bring him in. As strong as you are, you couldn't fight him. I can. I will. But first you need to get me out of here." Clark clenched his fists and waited, trying to think.  
  
"Uhh, what did he mean about that?" Chloe spoke up from the side. She waited, looking very confused. "Clark, what did he mean about strong? What's he talking about?"  
  
"Uh, nothing," Clark said quickly, his mind suddenly racing. Bruce may just have blown his entire secret with a few words! Clark didn't know how his friends would react if they found out his secret. So many horrible things had happened because of the meteor stones, what would Chloe and Pete think if they knew their best friend was connected to them? What would Lana think? Her parents had been killed in the meteor shower, would it just bring up old ghosts for her, every time she saw him? Clark tried to smile and reassure Chloe, but his face twitched nervously. Chloe's eyes narrowed as she stared at Clark, and for a second, he thought it was all over, his secret was out, when Bruce suddenly spoke up.  
  
"Farm boy here tried to attack Richie with a wooden post," Bruce said derisively. "All he got was a handful of splinters and almost Richie's arm in his side. He tries that again, and he might not be so lucky."  
  
"Oh, my god! You didn't tell me you tried to attack him," Chloe said and turned to slap Clark on the shoulder. "You idiot! You could have gotten yourself killed!"  
  
"It wasn't that bad," Clark said. "I'm feeling much better now, honest." It was the truth, actually. The pain had all but faded from his side, replaced by a small itch.  
  
"You try something like that again, Mr. Kent," Chloe warned him, "and a walking switchblade's going to be the least of your worries." She held his gaze until he nodded, and then she started to work on the straps again, apparently satisfied. Clark breathed an inward sigh of relief. That had been a little too close. Chloe had come near to discovering his secret in the past and each time it had gotten harder and harder to turn her away. She was one of his best friends, but her natural curiosity and stubbornness made him seriously consider avoiding her at times. Clark glanced over at Bruce and caught his eye. Bruce was eyeing him back curiously, and then he looked down to check Chloe's progress on the straps.  
  
"It was Chloe, right?" Bruce asked her calmly, his voice smooth and controlled. She looked up at him and nodded. "I'm sorry, I've been a little rude to you. I haven't said thanks yet. If it wasn't for you two, I might've been strapped down here for days." He gave her winning smile and Chloe arched her eyebrows, amused.  
  
"Oh, I get it," she said, unhooking one of the straps. "Now that we're going to help you, you're glad to see us, is that right?"  
  
"Sharp girl," Bruce smiled at her.  
  
"You have no idea," Clark remarked. Chloe gave Clark a look and started on the second strap.  
  
"Why don't you let Clark have a go at that?" Bruce asked her. "What I really need you to do is to get me some clothes." Chloe and Clark both froze. Bruce was lying in bed with a blanket coming up to his mid-chest. The straps had been added later, over the blanket.  
  
"Do you mean." Chloe blushed, "that you're naked under there?"  
  
Bruce frowned and coughed. "Of course not, they left me my boxers," he said. Chloe bit her lip, trying to hold back laughter with little success. Her shoulders shook from the effort. Clark smiled and looked away, shaking his head. "Hey, when they were stitching my leg up they had to cut my jeans off," Bruce said indignantly. "I didn't have much say in the matter."  
  
"Right," Chloe said, still laughing. "I guess I'll steal something from a room or storage. Any preferences or size?" she asked, heading towards the door.  
  
"Extra large shirt and a 32 pants," he said, fuming at her. "And nothing stupid looking!" he yelled as she opened the door. She waved her hand dismissively and disappeared. "She's going to come back here with something awful, isn't she?" Bruce asked Clark.  
  
"Moderately awful," Clark agreed and took hold of the straps. He snapped it easily and moved down the side of the bed, breaking them all. Bruce sat up slowly, moving his shoulders around in the straightjacket as he tried to free himself. "Here," Clark said and reached for the jacket. Bruce leaned away from him and shook his head.  
  
"No, I've got it," he said. Clark shrugged and stepped back. Now free to move around, Bruce dipped his shoulders and moved his arms around in the suit.  
  
"Why'd they put you in that?" Clark asked him as he watched.  
  
"After you ran away at the circus-" Bruce started, when Clark spoke up.  
  
"I didn't run away," he said with force, "I just couldn't stick around and let them take me here."  
  
"Whatever you say," Bruce said lightly. "Anyway, I tried to follow Richie, but didn't manage to get far. I passed out and the paramedics found me. I woke up here in the hospital while they were stitching me up. As soon as the doctors' backs were turned, I tried to make a break for it, but someone spotted me. After I broke an orderly's nose, they stuck me in this and strapped me down." He managed to free one arm, and moved it around, massaging his shoulder carefully. "Do you think you could open one of those windows?" Bruce asked him casually. Clark shrugged and pulled the closest one open for him. "Thanks," he muttered, still rubbing his shoulder. Then undoing the straps on his waist, he managed to slide the jacket over his head and off. Bruce threw the jacket towards the corner of the room and moved his neck around, making a series of popping noises. He sighed gratefully and rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand.  
  
Without the straightjacket, Clark could see how much damaged Richie had done to Bruce the night before. Both of his shoulders were heavily bandaged where Riche had grabbed him. There were numerous small patches of gauze taped to his chest and stomach, many of which were more than six inches long. All of Bruce's fingers were taped up as well, like he was some kind of boxer. Clark remembered Bruce punching Richie repeatedly and rubbed his own knuckles. He wondered how much that must have hurt. Bruce noticed him staring and shrugged. "It'll heal," he said unconcerned.  
  
Clark searched for something to say and finally offered, lamely, "I didn't know you could fight like that. It was. impressive."  
  
"After more than fifteen years training, it had better be more than that," Bruce remarked. "I've studied under masters of every fighting style there is, and he still managed to beat me." He looked at Clark, his eyes narrowing. "If you don't mind me asking, what happened to you?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I mean, someone drove a car into you, and you barely flinched. What happened when you fought Richie? It seemed like you were down before it even started."  
  
"Did you see the three stones embedded in his chest?" Bruce nodded slowly. "Well those are the meteor rocks that crashed here the day I arrived," Clark explained. "For some reason they weaken me, take away all my powers. I can't even stand to be near them. It feels like radiation or something. Lead's about the only thing that can block them."  
  
"Wait a minute," Bruce said, his brow furrowing. "Arrived? I thought you said you had your powers since birth?"  
  
"Yeah," Clark nodded, "I think I did anyway. My parents guessed that I was around three when I crashed here, and I was already strong then. I didn't have all my powers though, back then. I was just really strong. Other just started emerging recently."  
  
"Crashed?" Bruce asked, looking thoroughly puzzled now. "What do you mean, 'crashed'? Where do you come from?" Clark shrugged and extended one finger upwards. "I hope you mean outer space," Bruce commented.  
  
"Yeah, the ship's hidden on the farm," Clark smiled at him. Bruce didn't return it. He stared at Clark, frowning.  
  
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked him quietly. "I haven't told you anything about myself that would make you trust me."  
  
"I don't know," Clark admitted. "I guess I could say that we both have secrets, and you're not going to tell mine, cause then I'd tell yours, but it's more than that. I don't think I like you very much," Clark said truthfully, "but somehow I know I can trust you." Bruce stared at him, his face unreadable, and then opened his mouth to say something when Clark suddenly spoke up. "Chloe's coming back," he announced abruptly.  
  
"How can you tell?" Bruce asked, looking towards the door.  
  
"X-ray vision," Clark remarked. Bruce blinked and then shook his head. Just as he had predicted, the door opened and Chloe snuck into the room, quickly closing it behind her. She was holding a small bundle of clothes to her chest tightly.  
  
"What do you have for me?" Bruce asked impatiently. Chloe laughed and threw the pile of clothes on the bed.  
  
"A little courtesy, please, Mr. Wayne," she told him. "Would it kill you to say, 'thank you, Chloe'? I had to sneak into someone's room to steal half of this stuff for you. You owe me big time."  
  
"I owe them," he corrected her. "You'll have to give me the room number you went in, I'll leave them a few hundred for their trouble."  
  
Chloe blinked and said, "Forget what I said before, a few hundred bucks would help me too."  
  
"Thank you, Chloe," Bruce said quietly, hiding a smile.  
  
"I'd hold back on that yet," Clark said, picking up a shirt from the pile. It was a gray baseball jersey with a black bat shape on the front. Chloe smiled and looked away, chuckling.  
  
"What is this supposed to be?" Bruce asked slowly. He took it and turned it around to stare at the bat insignia. It had its wings outstretched beside it, looking like it was ready to swoop down to attack. The bat's face had a pair of gleaming fangs and an expression that was about as frightening as Count Chocula.  
  
"It's a jersey for the Lowell Vampires," Clark explained. "They're a minor league baseball team in the next county. They've got the worst record in the league."  
  
"I think it's their mascot's fault," Bruce said dryly. "Still." he said staring at the bat image. "Oh, whatever," he said finally and tugged the jersey on. He dug through the pile for a pair of jeans and then looked up at the two of them. Clark and Chloe turned around and Bruce started to dress.  
  
"I think my wallet's in the cabinet over there," he said to them while he was tugging on the jeans. "Could you toss it on the bed?" Clark opened the cabinet and found the wallet lying on the top shelf. He picked it up and opened it to glance inside. The driver's license said, 'Tom Malone' and gave an address in Gotham.  
  
"Do you always have this fake id in here?" Clark asked, tossing the wallet behind him.  
  
"Wouldn't make much sense not too," Bruce said from behind him. "I have a wallet that holds all of Tom Malone's information, and then I have a wallet for when I need to be Bruce Wayne."  
  
"But aren't you always Bruce Wayne?" Chloe pointed out.  
  
"That's just a matter of perspective," he remarked.  
  
"Oh, I almost forgot," Chloe said suddenly, "when I was looking around, I found out that your friend, Gail, is awake. Do you want to see her before we leave?" There was a long pause in which Bruce didn't say anything. "Hello?" Chloe asked impatiently, but still there was no answer. Clark glanced around to check on him, but the room was empty.  
  
"What now?" he asked staring around the room. Chloe turned around and stared in amazement.  
  
"What? He barely says thank you for rescuing him from here and then he goes and disappears into thin air?" she asked, kicking the side of the bed in frustration.  
  
"Not thin air," Clark said, looking at the open window. He stuck his head out and glanced around, but he couldn't see anything, even using his X-ray vision.  
  
"But we're three floors up," Chloe said in disbelief.  
  
"Tell him that."  
  
Chloe snarled and kicked the bed again. "Alright," she decided, fuming, "let's go talk to Gail and then we'll call Pete and see if he's found anything yet. I want to sit down and find out just what makes our friend, Mr. Wayne, tick." Clark nodded quietly, that was something he was very anxious to find out as well. 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
  
Clark and Chloe found Gail's room directly down the hall, right in the middle of the heaviest floor traffic. Nurses walked by briskly with doctors, their heads buried in charts as they talked. Injured people lay on gurneys all throughout the hall, heavily bandaged, but lying still. The two had to pause for a while, as a pair of nurses maneuvered a gurney down the hall and into the elevator. "How are they keeping up with all this?" Clark asked quietly.  
  
"They've already flown most of the serious cases out to Metropolis," Chloe told him. These are the people that can treat here, or wouldn't survive the trip," she finished in a whisper.  
  
Clark stared all around him, feeling a deep sinking in his chest. Richie had done all this to people he knew, people he saw everyday. And worse yet, there hadn't been a single thing he could've done to stop him. Clark had tried and despite all his powers, he had failed. Clark touched the cold metal bar of a gurney, staring at the face of the young boy on it. He had a large bandage wrapped around his head, covering his left eye. An angry red cut peaked out from beneath the end of the cloth. The metal bar crunched in Clark's hand as he stared, gritting his teeth. He recalled the little girl he had saved the night before, silently crying as she struggled underneath her dead mother. His hearing, already sharp, became like a razor, and he heard every moan and cry echo in his ears. Letting go of the bar, Clark backed away; the world's suffering engulfing him suddenly.  
  
"Clark?" Chloe asked. "What's wrong? Are you okay?" She took hold of his shoulder to steady him and guided him to a chair next to the wall.  
  
"I'm fine," he muttered, his knees buckling slightly as he almost fell into the seat.  
  
"Sure you are," she remarked.  
  
"No, it's alright. I just got a little. overwhelmed, I guess," he said. He stared at the floor, keeping his head down. The cries mercifully faded in his ears to a dull murmur. "I've never seen anything like this," he told her. "I didn't know it could get like this."  
  
"It was like this when the meteor's crashed down," Chloe said quietly. "My mom used to be a nurse, and so after they hit, she packed me and my brothers and sisters into the van and drove here, to see if she could help out. I was only three when it happened, but I can still remember sitting in the waiting room, watching injured people being rolled by endlessly. The worst part about it was, that I recognized some of the people, but I didn't understand what had happened to them." Her eyes started to water, and she dashed her arm across them, wiping away tears.  
  
"I had nightmares about it for years," she admitted. "I'd see my friends, my brothers, and sisters being wheeled past me, and I'd try and yank open the door to the waiting room open so I could stop them, but I could never get the door open. Then finally I'd see my mom and dad wheeled past and." she stopped and looked away. "It doesn't matter, I'm sorry," she apologized. "I guess I should be glad I didn't lose anyone. People like Lana weren't that lucky."  
  
"It's alright," Clark told her, taking her hand. "I don't remember the meteor shower at all. Sometimes, I guess I forget how horrible it must have been for everyone. It changed everyone's lives; this town's future."  
  
"Yeah," Chloe said bitterly, "really did us a favor, didn't it? If the crash wasn't bad enough, it left all sorts of nasty surprises lying around for people to find."  
  
"Like Richie." Clark looked up at the little boy across the hall and decided something. "You still feel up to talking to Gail?" Clark asked Chloe.  
  
"That was where we were headed," she replied. Clark got to his feet, listening to the dull murmur in his ears. Was it always going to be like this, he asked himself. Would he always be able to hear every cry of fear and pain of those around him for the rest of his life? Maybe it would be, but that didn't mean he had to sit by idly and just listen. He swore that to himself as they walked to Gail's room.  
  
Unlike Bruce, Gail shared a room with three other people. Two looked to have been here before last night; an old woman who was currently sleeping, and a young man with his lower body in a cast. The other was a young woman whose arms were wrapped in bandages. She was cradling them softly in her sleep, her face twitching in pain occasionally as she breathed. Gail lay on her sheets, her face cut and bruised and a tight bandage on her right arm. She stared out the window as they entered, not looking towards them. "Gail, right?" Chloe asked. "We met the other day at the circus. I'm Chloe Sullivan and this is Clark Kent." Gail didn't respond immediately, she just stared out the window. "If you're able to, we'd really like to ask you a few questions about Richie Tele-" Chloe continued when Gail spoke up, cutting her off.  
  
"You came yesterday looking for Tom, didn't you?" she asked, not taking her eyes off the window.  
  
"Uh, yes," Clark said. "Yes I did."  
  
"Why?" she asked him quietly. Clark shrugged uncomfortably, trying to put it in words right.  
  
"I had some questions about the guy," he said finally. "But the more I found out, the more confusing he became."  
  
Gail smiled sadly and looked at him finally. Her eyes narrowed a little as she saw him, then she turned to Chloe. "I'd say that's a fairly good description of how I feel right about now," she said. "About both Tom and Richie."  
  
"So how long did you know Bruce Wayne as Tom Malone?" Chloe asked, taking out a notebook. Gail arched one eyebrow and looked at Clark in puzzled amusement.  
  
"Am I being interviewed here?" she laughed. Clark rolled his eyes and nodded. "Oh my first interview," Gail said, reclining in her bed, "and I'm in such a state." Clark laughed in spite of himself as Chloe made a wry face.  
  
"Sorry, it's just I'd like to be a reporter someday and I guess I got into the habit," she apologized, but Gail shook her head.  
  
"No, its alright," she told her. "I don't mind being interviewed, but I don't know what I can tell you. What I mean is, I thought I knew Tom and I thought I knew Richie, but now," she paused and sighed, "I don't think I ever really knew either of them."  
  
"Just tell us what you can," Clark urged her. "Anything you can tell us would be helpful."  
  
Gail nodded and looked down at hands, folded on her blankets. "Alright, if you say so. Then I think I'll start with Tom, or Bruce as I suppose you know him," she said. "I guess I keep thinking of him as Tom Malone, the same guy who showed up at my father's tent two years ago. He'd never worked in a circus a day in his life, never trained with any other escape artist, and yet he just walked up to my father and told him he'd like to learn anything he could teach him. My father laughed him off," Gail admitted, "but he was so insistent that I guess he just let him stay around to shut him up. I think that was the most that I ever heard him talk to anyone." She stopped and laughed a little. "My dad told me he had planned to work Tom so hard he'd quit on his own, but that never happened. Tom's the strongest, hardest person I've ever met. He did any job my father had for him, and was still ready and willing to learn whatever scraps my father had for him at the end of the day. And that's when my father found out how smart he was too. Tom can figure anything out, pick up any trick just by watching it once. He's really amazing," she told them, "much better than me. He could've been the best if he'd really wanted to be."  
  
"But he was just there for something else," Clark finished for her. Gail looked up at him and nodded.  
  
"He doesn't want to be a performer, I know that for a fact. I asked him once, if he would stick around with us," she said slowly, looking back out the window, "but he said no. I don't know what he plans on doing with this life, I'm not sure he knows either. Sometimes, I'd watch him, watch him work or train, and he'd get this look on his face. It was like, despite everything he was doing, it wasn't enough. Like he needed something else, but he didn't know what." She sighed again and rubbed her arms like she was cold. She flinched a little as she touched her bandage, the wound still raw.  
  
"How are you feeling?" Clark asked quietly. "Everything okay?"  
  
She smiled gratefully at him and nodded. "I'm fine, this is nothing. They say my dad's going to be okay too. He wasn't hurt too bad." Her face fell as she said, "But a lot of people weren't so lucky. I still don't understand how he could just lash out at everyone like that. His father, yes, but we all loved him."  
  
"This would be Richie now," Chloe said, writing furiously. "What about his father?"  
  
"Richie's dad was a jerk," Gail stated. "Everyone hated him, but no one was willing to quit over it. I told my dad we should've plenty of times, but he never agreed. There aren't too many other circuses that can a support a sideshow act like ours. If it wasn't here, it was Vegas, and that was something my dad swore he'd never do. So we all just put up with him. I don't think Richie could do that, he had to live with him."  
  
"If he was so mean to his son, why didn't someone say anything?" Clark asked. Gail shrugged and looked at him seriously.  
  
"What can you say to someone like that? We didn't know that he was abusing him. We knew they had fights, but it wasn't like Richie went around telling everyone about it." She frowned and looked down at her hands. "You probably won't understand this, but a circus is really like a family. We all stick together, and try and help each other out. Sometimes that can go the wrong way and everyone just ignores what's really going on because we don't want to turn on a family member."  
  
"Maybe that's why he lashed out," Chloe offered. "He felt that he was the only one left out."  
  
"I don't know," Gail said quietly. "I'm not too sure what to think about him anymore."  
  
"Do you have any idea what he'll try and do next?" Clark asked her.  
  
"No. Richie never was much for planning ahead. I don't know where he'd go or what he'd do now. Sorry."  
  
Clark waved away her apology. "It's alright. Thanks anyways." Chloe nodded and put away her notebook. Then she took it out, scribbled a number on a piece a paper, and tore it out of the book.  
  
"If you can think of anything else," she said, handing the slip to Gail, "just call me at this number. It's my home number, so I probably won't be there, but just leave a message."  
  
"Thanks," Gail said, looking at the slip of paper. "Could you do me a favor though, first?" Chloe nodded. "Could you find Tom for me?" Gail asked her quietly. "I don't see what happened to him, and none of the doctors or nurses would tell me either. He could be dead for all I know."  
  
"Don't worry, he's not dead," Clark told her, coming back to her bedside. "He's fine. Well enough in fact to nearly bite my head off when I tried to help him."  
  
Gail let out a sigh of relief and fell back on her pillow. "Oh thank God," she said, her eyes tearing up. "I saw him try and fight Richie, but then I passed out and woke up here. Where is he?" she asked. "Is he alright?" Clark and Chloe exchanged a look that Gail caught. "What's the matter?" she asked. "You said he's fine, right?"  
  
"Yes," Chloe assured her, "but as for where he is." her voice trailed off.  
  
"He was taken here too," Clark stepped in, "but he didn't seem to plan on staying. The doctors had him locked up in a room down the hall, and we sorta let him out."  
  
"What?" Gail asked, confused. "What do you mean? Where is he?"  
  
"That's just what we were asking a few minutes ago," Chloe said sarcastically. "Our Millionaire Wonder gave us the slip the second our backs were turned."  
  
"He left you?" Gail asked them incredulously. "I don't understand. Didn't he know I was here?" she asked them, her voice almost a whisper. "Didn't he want to make sure we were alright?" Clark tried to speak, but when he looked at her face, he couldn't seem to get the words out. Gail saw him floundering and the truth slowly started to dawn in her eyes, when suddenly Chloe spoke up.  
  
"Of course he didn't know," she told Gail matter-of-factly. "He left before we could tell him." Gail turned to her, relief flooding back into her face. "None of us knew you were here until we checked the nurses station. Bruce, Tom, thought you might be still back at the circus, trapped somewhere. That's probably where's he headed now." Out of the corner of his eye, Clark stared at Chloe, stunned. Chloe's face was calm and soft as she spoke to Gail, not betraying anything. "He seemed really worried," Chloe told her finally. Gail's cheeks went a little red and she glanced out the window again, turning away from them. Clark turned to Chloe, an unspoken question on his face, but Chloe held up a finger on her hand, telling him to wait.  
  
"Well, the police are at the circus, right?" Gail said slowly. "So I guess he'll find out that I'm here pretty soon. But," she remarked, "After he finds me, he's going to want to find Richie. They've never liked each other," she told Clark and Chloe forcefully. "I've seen Tom practice and fight, so I know he's amazing, but what he can do against Richie?" She turned to Clark and stared into his eyes. "Please, you've got to help him," she begged him. Clark backed up a step, suddenly very worried about how sure Gail was that he could help Bruce.  
  
"I'm not sure what I could do," Clark said quietly, looking away from Gail. "Even if I could, I don't think he'd accept it."  
  
"Please," she begged again. "Forget about what he wants. He can't do it alone, he knows it, but he'll still try even if it kills him."  
  
Clark stared at her, looking at him helplessly. Chloe looked at him, her face sad, but also a little puzzled. He turned away, looking down at the floor. Bruce couldn't beat Richie alone. He'd tried and he'd almost gotten killed in the process. Clark didn't owe the guy anything, he didn't want him hurt, but he also wouldn't have been that upset if he had never heard from Bruce Wayne ever again. He'd stop Richie on his own, then he'd deal with Bruce, Clark tried to tell himself. He could do it; he was strong, he was fast, he was. He was a liar, he realized suddenly. He'd tried to fight Richie and he'd almost wound up in as much trouble as Bruce. Clark couldn't beat Richie alone. Bruce couldn't beat Richie alone. But together. It went against all of Clark's wishes, but there didn't seem to be any other choice. They'd have to fight together; there was no other way.  
  
"I'll try," he promised Gail, trying to keep his voice from sounding as reluctant as he felt. 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6  
  
As they left the hospital, all Clark could think about was what he had promised Gail, about what he had realized back in her room. He needed Bruce's help! The same guy who they'd freed back in the hospital, and then had left them to face Gail alone. He hadn't even bothered to check up on her, he raged, and she still expected Clark to help him. The stupid, ungrateful, uncaring- Clark bit off the thought and forced himself to calm down. No matter what he thought about Bruce, he needed him. One thing Gail had been right about was that despite everything else, Bruce was an amazing fighter. He'd hurt Richie, maybe not badly, but he'd done more damage than Clark had. Maybe together they could figure out a way to bring Richie down. Sure, he told himself, that wouldn't be too hard. Beat a guy who's got skin like a razor; that shouldn't be too difficult. Yeah, and all he had to do first was find Bruce, and who knows where he could be.  
  
"And there's another thing I have to worry about," Clark muttered. "What if Bruce finds Richie before I find him?"  
  
"Don't tell me your actually planning on going after him," Chloe said. They passed the Beanery as they walked down the street. From the hospital on the outskirts of town to the school it was about a half hour walk.  
  
"Which one?" Clark asked, still thinking.  
  
"Take your pick! First we've got a wanted felon, a guy who almost made a shish kabob out of you last night; and next there's a guy whose been kicking the tar out of wanted felons. I mean," she said quickly, "not to criticize you or anything, but what can you really do? Even if you bump into Bruce on the street, like right now, what could you do? Make him go back to the hospital? Or tell him not to go after Richie?" She frowned and looked behind them, checking the street.  
  
"What's the matter?" Clark asked her.  
  
"Sorry," she explained, "Pete's just shown me too many horror movies I guess. When you say something like that, then whoever you didn't expect to pop up just then, does." Suddenly she shrieked as a hand clutched her side. Clark nearly jumped out of his skin as he turned around, expecting the worst. Instead he saw Pete grinning from ear to ear.  
  
"Sorry, Chloe," he apologized, still laughing, "couldn't resist." Chloe yelled at him and hit him with her bag. "What were you expecting someone else?" Pete laughed as he jumped back.  
  
"Jerk," she muttered sullenly. "I thought you were supposed to be at school, doing research for me, not making me lose ten years of my life."  
  
"I was, I hit pay dirt and decided to find you guys early," he said. "How'd things go at the hospital? What'd Bruce say?"  
  
"Not much," Clark replied. "He barely thanked us for getting him out of there before giving us the slip. I think he's going after Richie by himself, even if it gets him killed."  
  
Pete's face grew serious as he listened. "I can almost understand why," he said, nodding.  
  
"What do you mean?" Clark asked.  
  
"Well, you really have to see this," Pete explained to them as they started back towards the school.  
  
Ever since Chloe had taken charge of the school newspaper, The Torch, she had slowly transformed the newsroom into her own private shrine to investigative reporting. She had two computers hooked up to an online reference guide of bizarre and unexplainable phenomenon as well as scientific and historical search engines. Her back office, the home of the infamous 'Wall of Weird', had newspaper clippings that dated back to the founding of Smallville. She had even gathered, at her own expense, several old almanacs and journals from the earliest settlers and traders that had passed through this territory. In short, her office held literally anything and everything that a person could ever want to know about Smallville, and it's unique history. When they entered, Clark saw that Pete had staked a claim to the computer in the far corner. It was surrounded by candy-wrappers and plastic cups.  
  
"I guess you're not the only one who's been up all night," Clark told Chloe as they sat down at the desk. She ignored him and stared at the wrappers in disgust.  
  
"Pete," she asked him, "what have I told you about cleaning up when you're done in here?"  
  
"Sorry," he apologized quickly, "I started doing a bit of research at home, and when I found something, I had to use the computers here to confirm it." He rubbed his eyes and blinked several times. "Actually I took a break to find you guys when I started to see double. Way too much coffee for me."  
  
"Well before the sugar rush ends," Chloe said, "why don't you show us what you found?" Pete smiled and motioned her to a seat. He sat down next to the computer and pulled up a picture of Bruce that looked fairly recent. He was slouched over, giving the camera a bored smile as he stood next to a bar.  
  
"This is an Inquisitor picture of him taken two years ago," Pete explained. "It's the kind pretty much everyone knows about, 'Rich kid enjoys life of leisure at Florida hot spot'. There's almost an identical one about Lex a few pages over actually. Anyway, this is the Bruce Wayne we all know, right?" he asked them.  
  
"Not hardly," Chloe stated, staring at the photo. "You should've seen him at the hospital, completely different."  
  
"No, we do know this one," Clark disagreed. "We met him at the Beanery, remember? When Lex was first introducing him. He was exactly like that," he said, pointing at the screen.  
  
"So what? Does he have split personalities or something?" she asked him.  
  
"Wait a second," Pete told her, "it gets better."  
  
"Last night," he explained, "I kept finding these kind of articles about him. Everywhere I looked all I'd see were Inquisitor and even Daily Planet stories about what a mess this kid is." He started to hand them printed out sheets, one by one explaining them. "'Wayne fortune in hands of high school dropout.' 'Wayne heir goes on wild romp through hotel'. 'Wayne midterm party torches half of college hall'. There's even one linking him and Brittany Spears, but I won't go into that," he said quickly, catching Chloe's eye.  
  
"Anyway," he continued, "I was going to close out when I hit the sort button to go by earliest date, just to see if I could find out when these wild stories about him started. That's when I found this," he said passing them a single sheet of paper.  
  
Clark read it over Chloe's shoulder as she read aloud. "'Wayne Family Slain in Hold-Up Attempt'." She looked up over the paper to stare at Pete. "His parent's?" she asked. Pete nodded and motioned her to go on. "'Dr. Thomas Wayne was gunned down last night as he and his wife, Martha, and their son, Bruce, 8, were walking home from a movie. The murder is believed to have motivated by greed; the assailant demanded Mrs. Wayne's jewels along with money, though it is unclear if the two resisted. Police have no leads to the whereabouts of the killer.'" She lowered the paper. "Oh my God. He watched his parents get gunned down. I had no idea."  
  
"Yeah," Pete said, "me either. You'd think someone with his track record for irresponsibility would cart it around wherever he went. Use it like an excuse for how he acts or something. But in all the articles I read last night, I don't think he ever talked about them once."  
  
Clark pulled out a sheet of paper from the stack Pete had given them. It was a picture of a much younger Bruce, leaning against a lamppost, staring at the camera. The caption read: 'Wayne tragedy survivor, Bruce Wayne stands by the spot where his parents fell'. Clark stared at the look of stern resolve on the boy's face. It was as fierce as the one he'd seen on Bruce the night before, when Clark had left him at the circus. "That made you, didn't it," he muttered, shaking his head. "That's what created you."  
  
"Did you say something, Clark?" Pete asked.  
  
"Just that, I guess this is might be an explanation," he said. "I mean, why else would someone like him go out and hunt down people like he does. He wants revenge."  
  
Chloe looked at him and then turned back to her computer. "Maybe so," she said quietly. "Maybe he deserves it. I don't know."  
  
Pete leaned over her shoulder and stared at the screen. "So what are we going to do with this?" he asked her.  
  
"What do you mean?" she asked, sorting through the files again.  
  
"I mean, what are we going to do with this story?" he asked her. He held up the printed out article and waved it in the air. "Do we trash it, go to the Inquisitor, what?"  
  
"No!" Clark and Chloe both said at the same time. They glanced at each other and then looked away.  
  
"Let's just hold onto it for now," Chloe said, moving the data into a secure file. "We can always decide what to do with it later. I'll encrypt the article in here, I guess you can just give the printout to store somewhere."  
  
"I'll hang onto it," Clark spoke up. Pete and Chloe looked at him, surprised. "If that's okay," he added.  
  
"Sure, I guess," Chloe said, and Pete handed over the article. Folding it up carefully, Clark tucked it into his pocket. "Well now that that's out of the way, what about Richie? Any more news on him while we were gone?" she asked Pete. He shook his head and slipped back seat to face the computer.  
  
"Nothing new," he said, brining up the Smallville Ledger homepage. I went to the Daily Planet site a few minutes before I left and they had as much as- hold on," he said suddenly as he brought up the site. "Uh oh," he said quietly.  
  
"Uh oh," Chloe asked. "Uh oh, what? Is it bad?"  
  
"Since when is uh oh, good?" Pete remarked. "It says here that the governor's just decided to call in the National Guard. They're making this a full manhunt for Richie, I guess."  
  
"The National Guard," Clark breathed in amazement. "This just goes from bad to worse, doesn't it?"  
  
"So what now?" Pete asked.  
  
"We find Bruce," Clark said firmly. "We have to tell him about this. If the National Guard moves in, and Bruce gets caught between them and Richie, he'll get himself killed that much quicker. And I promised I wouldn't let that happen." Pete and Chloe exchanged a worried glance and nodded in agreement. 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7  
  
Later that day, Clark wearily trudged down the road to the farm. He was tired, sweaty, and the wound in his side bite into him every time he breathed. He, Pete, and Chloe had spent the rest of the day looking all over town for Bruce, without a bit of success. They had talked to everyone he might have had contact with, Lana, Lex, even had given Gail a call at the hospital to see if Bruce had returned, but nothing. He simply couldn't be found. As the sun started to set, Clark got more and more worried. Something about Bruce told him that if he were going to make his move, he'd do it at night. And with the National Guard arriving soon. Clark shuddered that thought away. He'd find Bruce, he'd swore to Gail that he would.  
  
Jonathon was bent underneath the old tractor, still making repairs to it from the night before. Clark's foot kicked a stone, sending it rolling past his father and he jumped unexpectedly. Jonathon leapt up, holding a wrench like a club, staring around until he saw his son. "Geez, Clark," he said, lowering the wrench. "Almost gave me a heart attack." He wiped his brow and looked at his son. "How'd things go?"  
  
"Not that well," Clark grumbled, shaking his head. He looked out over the fields, staring into the woods. "How are you and Mom doing?"  
  
Jonathon bent down and started packing his tools away. "To tell you the truth," he said quietly, "I don't know if I ever been this scared in my life. Every time I look up, I expect to see that Richie boy just step out of the woods coming towards us. Your mother's got it worse though." He straightened and looked at Clark gravely. "She watched some of those broadcasts of the circus, and she's worried sick about you. She's been trying to keep busy, cooking all entire day. We're in for a heck of a meal tonight," he tried to smile. Clark gave him a half-hearted grin back and looked up at the house. "Clark," his dad said, "go talk to her. She's afraid that you're going to go off without thinking and just get yourself killed. She wants you to just leave this to the police."  
  
"What do you think?" Clark asked. His father frowned and looked away, shaking his head.  
  
"I almost wish you hadn't asked that," he admitted softly. "Clark, you're not like other people, that's not saying anything against you," he assured his son. "But it's not saying anything for you either. Every one's got some kind of talent, a gift that only they have. Those gifts don't define us; it's what we choose to do with them that matters. I don't want you to make a decision that could get you killed, but I can't make that decision for you. I'm not you; I don't have your gifts. I can't tell you what to do with them."  
  
"So what are you saying?" Clark asked him. Jonathon looked at his son, his face tired and sad.  
  
"Do what you think is the right thing to do," his father told him quietly. "No one would think bad of you if you sat this one out. But it would have to be your choice; we can't help you make it. They're your gifts Clark; it's up to you to decide when, not just how, to use them." Clark nodded slowly, and Jonathon gave him a quick pat on the back. "Well, in the meantime, I guess we better face this dinner your mother's got prepared for us. What do you think?"  
  
"Uh huh," Clark mumbled and walked with him to the house. Halfway there, the door flew open and his mother ran down to greet him. Hugging him tightly, she looked him up and down quickly.  
  
"Where have you been all day?" she demanded in a rush, and then moved on without waiting for a response. "You're a mess, look at you! Are you feeling any better, any more pain?" Fending her off, Clark tried to put on a good face for her.  
  
"I'm fine," he said quickly, "really. I spent the day with Chloe and Pete. We visited someone at the hospital and then went looking for Bruce."  
  
"Wasn't he at the hospital?" Jonathon asked, puzzled.  
  
"He was." Clark admitted, "It's a long story."  
  
"Come inside then," Martha said quickly, holding his arm tightly as she practically yanked him up the stairs with her. "No use you standing outside and wasting away while you tell it. Come inside, I cooked you a little something."  
  
A little something was a bit of an understatement. The kitchen counter was practically covered with all manner of meals and dishes. There was a pot of stew simmering away on the stove and what looked like a chocolate cake sitting in the oven. "Cooking for twelve tonight, Mom?" Clark asked, staring into the kitchen. His mother sniffed and folded her arms.  
  
"Sorry, I can't help it," she said. "When I get nervous, I cook, always have. At least I'm better at it now, you should have seen the monstrosity I cooked up the first time I got the wedding jitters after your father proposed to me."  
  
"Look nothing," Jonathon said from the doorway, "you should have tasted it." Martha gave him a wry look and rubbed her hands on her pants, dusting the flour off of them.  
  
"Thanks, Mom," Clark said, smiling at her. "I am a little hungry. Maybe not that hungry, but a little," he told her, angling his head towards the kitchen.  
  
"Glad to know someone appreciates it. Well, first things first," she said to Clark. "You better wash up first, before you eat. You look kind of worn out."  
  
Clark nodded and walked up the stairs, pulling his shirt off as he went. He tossed it into his room and then went into the bathroom. After washing his face under the cold water, he straightened and raised his arm, poking at the bandage experimentally. There was only a tiny bloodstain on it, but Clark carefully pried back the tape and removed the gauze. The wound had closed up, but was still a dark red line. At least his powers would help him heal, he thought thankfully. Clark dug into the medicine cabinet and applied a fresh pad of gauze and some new tape to it. Satisfied, he walked into his room, pulling a new shirt out from his clothes drawer.  
  
Pulling it on, he suddenly noticed something out of the corner of his eye and turned around quickly. Leaning nonchalantly in his doorway, was Bruce Wayne, still dressed in the same clothes that Chloe had given him. He crunched into an apple as he watched Clark, and nodded at him. "I was wondering when you were going to get home," he said around a mouthful.  
  
Clark stared at him in astonishment, unable to say anything. Bruce took another bite of his apple and then waved it at him. "Met your folks. Or at least, I watched them. They seem like nice people."  
  
"What are you doing here?" Clark finally managed to get out.  
  
Bruce shrugged, took a last bite of his apple and tossed it in the trash. "I thought it would be a good idea to check out your home. See if you were telling the truth. Then to see how much you had found out about Richie and me. I was also curious to see your spaceship, but that was a disappointment. Lot smaller than I expected; looked more like an escape pod than anything."  
  
"You found it?" Clark asked, stunned. Bruce snorted and laughed.  
  
"Wasn't that hard to find, you had it hid in the cellar. Didn't even bother to cover it up; sloppy."  
  
"Where did you-" Clark started to say, when he stopped himself. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples in aggrivation. Bruce waited, looking a little amused. "Why did you leave at the hospital? Gail was worried sick about you, and you didn't even to check up on her."  
  
Bruce grunted and walked over to Clark's window. He gazed outside, looking up at the skyline. "There were more important things to do. I went back to the circus, but I couldn't find Richie. He's gone, hiding in the woods probably. Police have that whole area cordoned off now. Waiting for the National Guard to clean this mess up for them."  
  
"You heard about them?" Clark asked him.  
  
"Kind of hard not to; the entire town's talking about it. I figure I've got about 36 hours, at the most, to make my move."  
  
"What move? What are you talking about?"  
  
Bruce turned around and looked at him like he was joking. "To bring Richie in, of course."  
  
Clark backed up, shaking his head. "No, wait a minute. What about the National Guard, can't they handle this?"  
  
"I hit Richie with a car last night," Bruce said slowly. "It didn't do much more than put a few cracks in his stomach. If they go after him, they're going to have to use tanks. But before that, they'll probably just try and shoot him, and that won't have much effect. He'll carve a few of them up, and then they'll use tanks, or bombs. I don't have the slightest idea how much explosives it would take, but let's be generous and say a lot. Since he'll probably still be in the woods, I'm guessing there'll be fires, which will probably spread across the county. Add to that the farms and homes, just like this one, that are pressed right up against the forest and you can see where I'm going."  
  
Clark tried to comprehend it all, and shook his head again. "I like my plan better," Bruce said simply.  
  
"And you seriously think you can bring him in?" Clark asked him, starting to get angry. "After what he did to you last night, you're talking about it like it's a done deal. You don't even know where he is."  
  
"I'll find him-" Bruce started to say, but Clark yelled right over him.  
  
"No, you're not going anywhere," he told Bruce with force. Then he paused, took a deep breath and said, "Not without me." He expected Bruce to get angry, shout at him, but he did not. Instead, his mouth twitched upwards in a half-smile and he chuckled.  
  
"I forgot," he laughed quietly. "You were such a big help last night." Clark's fists clenched, and if he could have melted Bruce away with his eyes, he would've done so on the spot.  
  
"Clark, what's the matter?" his mother called, her voice getting louder as she came up the stairs. "We thought you heard you talking up here," she said as she peaked into his room. She saw Bruce and she took a step back. "Oh, what? Who's this?"  
  
"Mom," Clark said, forcing his voice into a civil tone, "this is Bruce Wayne. Bruce, my mother." He nodded to her, brusquely.  
  
"Hello," she said back, startled. "I didn't hear you come in. When did you get here?" she tried to ask innocently.  
  
"A few hours ago," Bruce shrugged. Her voice caught in her throat as she watched him, her eyes wide. "You have a nice home. Some interesting things in it."  
  
"Bruce was going to stay for dinner," Clark told her loudly. Both his mother and Bruce whipped their heads around to stare at him. Clark matched Bruce's look with one of his own. "Why don't you go tell Dad we've got company?" Clark suggested to his mother.  
  
"Right," she said slowly, looking at the two of them. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled." She backed up quickly and left the room. Clark and Bruce didn't break eye contact as she left. They stood perfectly still, the challenge in the air. Bruce broke the silence first.  
  
"I have work to do," he said. "I didn't come here for dinner."  
  
"Then what did you come here for?" Clark demanded. "You need my help, and I think you know it." Bruce's eyes turned into lasers as he stared at Clark. "I think you want my help," Clark continued, "but you just don't know how to ask for it."  
  
"I'm leaving," Bruce said shortly, trying to walk past him. Clark put his arm out, shattering through the wood frame on his doorway. Bruce looked down at the arm blocking his path and then slowly he brought his up to Clark's. "Don't try me," he said, spitting each word out like it was poison.  
  
"We have to talk," Clark told him again. "You're staying for dinner." Bruce glowered back at him and then finally he backed off.  
  
Dinner was a disaster, for everyone. Bruce sat in his seat like he was strapped down into it, his face a thundercloud. He ate slowly, never taking his eyes off Clark. For his part, Clark ignored him, eating quietly and trying to make light conversation with his parents. Jonathon and Martha sat nervously in their seats, glancing at Bruce occasionally like he was some kind of wild dog that might snap at any moment. You could have cut the tension in the air with a knife.  
  
Finally, in desperation, Jonathon asked, "So why are you in the circus, Bruce?"  
  
"Being an escape artist is going to help me out someday," he said quietly, never taking his eyes off Clark.  
  
"Oh, why's that? What are you going to do?"  
  
"Assault criminals." There was a pause that was almost pregnant as Jonathon's mouth twitched. "Don't know how I'm going to do it yet," Bruce admitted to him. Clark looked over at him, and then took a bit out his dinner, chewing it slowly. "What about you, Clark?" Bruce asked him, smiling. "What are you going to do with the rest of your life?"  
  
"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't have it all figured out like you do."  
  
"Pity, you should. You should always decide what you're going to do, and then do it. No hesitation, no looking back."  
  
"Some of us aren't like that," Clark told him. "I'm just trying to enjoy my life, right now."  
  
"Enjoy. your life?" Bruce asked him, breaking into a grin. He started to laugh, his shoulders shaking fiercely. He put down his fork and rubbed at his eyes, wiping away tears.  
  
"What so funny?" Clark asked him, irritated. Bruce shook his head, still laughing, and got up from his seat.  
  
"In a second," he said quietly. "Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Kent. It's been a while since I've had food that good."  
  
"Thank you," she said, looking a little confused, but still pleased. "And please, just call me Martha."  
  
"Martha," Bruce said quietly. "That's a very nice name. It was my mother's."  
  
"Oh," she said quietly. "You know, I don't think I've ever read anything about them."  
  
"Probably not," he told her. "They was murdered when I was eight. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime." He pushed in his chair as Martha stared at him and walked away from the table. Clark glanced at his mother, and then got up quickly as well. He followed Bruce outside to find him standing on their porch, looking out into the stars.  
  
"You're parents are very nice people," Bruce said quietly. "They must be very special to you."  
  
"Yes they are," Clark said. He leaned against one of the posts and watched him. Bruce stood at the railing and looked upwards, his face quiet and thoughtful.  
  
"My parents were very special to me too," he admitted to Clark. "But then something happened to them. And they were gone."  
  
"Pete found out about them," Clark told him. "About how they were shot. I'm sorry. I can't imagine what that would be like."  
  
"I lost everything that night," Bruce said, his voice monotone. "I was eight, my parents were my entire world. And then a man walked out of an alley with a gun. He wanted money, but my father refused, tried to talk him out of it. Didn't work. He fired two shots into my father's chest, .45 caliber rounds. You wouldn't believe how much damage that does to a human body. My mother screamed and lurched forwards, and somehow her necklace of pearls caught on the man's gun. He tried to pull away, but his gun was caught. He panicked and put the barrel to the base of her chin. Then he pulled the trigger." Bruce stopped and shook his head ever so slightly. He passed a hand over his face, covering his eyes.  
  
"Seeing something like that puts all your nightmares to shame. My parents were dead when they hit the concrete, I thought I was next, but instead, he ran. And I was alone."  
  
Clark was silent at first, seeing the scene unfold in his mind. He imagined his parents gunned down like that, dying at his feet. "Is that why you do it?" he asked. "Is that why you go out, hunt down criminals? Revenge?"  
  
Bruce sighed and didn't say anything for a moment. Finally, he turned to Clark and said, "No, not revenge. It's something else, something that I learned that night, and that world's confirmed for me every other day since."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Clark, the world is hard, cold, dark place," Bruce told him quietly. "People pretend it's nice, that life is good and full of brightness. And yes, sometimes it is. But for as much order and happiness, there is more chaos. Individuals can be bright and compassionate, but as a group we could hardly give a damn. People kill each other for pointless, stupid reasons every day. Open up your paper; watch the news, its all the same. John Q. Public has a wife and 2.5 children. He has a job he loves; he pays his taxes on time, never speeds. Then one day he comes home to find his children chopped to bits and his wife raped, mutilated, and lying in the bathtub. Why? There is no reason. We say it can't happen to us, and walk around with blinders until it does. We don't see the problem because it's just too big and horrifying. Because it's us. We are the problem; the world is. The world was revealed to me that night, like it's meaning was written right out beside my parents. Like someone had pulled back the curtain and shown me just how everything worked. I looked down at them and I learned that the world doesn't make sense unless you force it to."  
  
"If we are the problem, Clark, we are also the solution. We can make things better; punish people that the police can't reach. Impose our own order on a society that will never have one. We can make things better."  
  
"How?" Clark asked him. "By just assaulting people, like you do? There are courts and laws for that."  
  
"Jail doesn't scare criminals, Clark," Bruce replied. "If it did, no one would need to go back. And I respect the law; it's done all it can to keep things in line. All I want to do is help it out a bit. I'm not a killer either, and I never want to be one. We can't save the world if we're willing to kill."  
  
"I agree with you there totally. But what about taking the law into your own hands, that makes you a criminal too, doesn't it?" he pointed out to him.  
  
"Of course it does," Bruce agreed. "We have to be criminals, there is no other way."  
  
Clark thought for a while, absorbing this in as he looked out over the stars. Bruce waited patiently, watching the sky as well. The heavens were filled with twinkling light, and for a moment, it seemed that anything could be possible. Each star glimmered like a wish, waiting to be granted. Then Clark slowly backed away, shaking his head. "No, I think you're wrong," he said slowly. Bruce didn't say anything, just waited for him to continue.  
  
"I think that people are good and decent," Clark explained. "I know that there's evil in the world, but I think, I know that we can overcome it. You're right that sometimes things happen without a reason, but we can weather them, and become stronger for it. If the world does need people like us, it's not to impose our own will on them, but to let them go forwards on their own. You asked me what I wanted to do when I grow up; well I think I know now. The first good thing I ever did with my powers was save a life; a life everyone else had given up on. But I didn't, and I have a good friend because of it now. Because of me, he's got a second chance now, and that the best thing you can ever give someone. I think that's what we've been put here for, to catch people when they fall." Clark finished, and looked for a response from Bruce, but none was forthcoming. He turned away and walked to the end of the porch and glanced upwards. Thick clouds were rolling in from the east, slowly blotting out the stars with blackness.  
  
"Do you really believe that?" Bruce asked him quietly.  
  
"Yes, I do," Clark replied. Bruce sighed and turned to him. He seemed disappointed it, but his eyes looked off into the distance, as if seeing something far off.  
  
"We're going to have a disagreement someday, aren't we?" he asked. Clark stared at him, unable to find the words. "What happens then?"  
  
"I don't know," he said finally. Bruce nodded absently and looked away. "Do you want to go look for him now?" Clark asked him. Bruce nodded, his face grim, but that same half-smile played around his mouth.  
  
"We need to gather a few things here first, but yeah, I'm ready," he said. "How about you?"  
  
Clark nodded. "Ready as I'll ever be. So where do we start looking?" 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8  
  
Gail turned in her bed, something waking her up. It was dark outside, and she glanced around, looking for a clock. There was none though in the hospital room and Gail flopped back in her covers, trying to go back to sleep. She brought the sheets up to her neck, shivering even though it wasn't cold out. As she closed her eyes, she heard the sound of someone clearing their throat. She sat up in a rush, staring around the room. In a deep patch of shadows across the room, something moved. "Who's there?" she asked quietly, her voice wavering.  
  
"Not so loud," a dry, cracking voice whispered. It grated like broken glass against her ears. It was also, slightly familiar.  
  
"Richie?" she asked, her voice almost nonexistent. In response, he stepped out of the shadows. Naked from the waist up, he stood ramrod straight, like he was at attention. There were cracks and pockmarks all over his body, but they didn't seem to be bleeding like wounds. The three circular scars in his gut were a dull gray now, not the bright green she remembered. His face was emotionless, almost like it was frozen in place. He gazed at her without blinking, if he still even needed to do that. He'd washed the blood off of himself, but as she stared at his long, slender fingers, she could remember them dripping red.  
  
Richie took a step towards her, and she tried to scramble away, slamming against the wall behind her. She glanced at the call button by her bed, readying herself to spring for it. Just as she was though, he spoke.  
  
"Don't." She looked up at him, and he nodded his head slowly towards the other three beds in the room. The other patients were still asleep, totally unaware. He reached out his hand over the nearest one, an old woman dozing quietly. His fingers, sharper than daggers, floated over her exposed neck.  
  
"No," Gail whispered quietly. "No, please." He looked up at her and pulled his hand back. He took another step towards her, and this time Gail sat still. Satisfied, Richie walked stiffly over to her bed and looked down at her. His face was still frozen, but his eyes were dripping with sadness. They were the only things in his face that seemed truly alive, like two gleaming jeweled eyes stuck in a statue. He reached towards her, and Gail flinched back. he seemed to understand, and didn't touch her, but he traced out the contours of her face with his fingers in the air. This close up, she noticed that the ends of his fingers were slightly pointed, like claws. She shivered and closed her eyes, trying to pray.  
  
"I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered. "I just wanted to see you again, while I can control myself. I'm still changing, it's hard to describe. I can't feel much, physically, anymore, but it's like my emotions are making up for it. I can't control them; they just keep rolling inside of me."  
  
He sighed and his neck cracked briefly as he shook his head. "When the sun came up today, I almost cried with joy because it was so beautiful and I was so glad to be alive. But the night before.."  
  
"You tried to kill me," she remarked, some of the fire coming back to her. He nodded, his eyes sadder than ever. "You tried to kill my dad. You killed yours!"  
  
"I know," he replied. "Everything was a blur, I don't even remember killing him. I just remember hate, and red." he paused. "I'm sorry that everyone else got in the way."  
  
"Got in the way." she repeated, horrified. He nodded, holding up his hands. He stared at them, turning them over and moving his fingers.  
  
"I killed my dad because he needed killing, but everyone else." he paused. "I guess I killed everyone else because I was still too angry and they were right there. I was mad, no, that's not right," he argued. "I just couldn't help myself; I was just so angry, I needed to hurt something. It's like, my emotions are the only thing I have left, and they're so powerful now." He looked at her, his eyes haunted. Flexing his fingers, he started to reach for her face again, but stopped himself. Gail watched him, almost frozen in her bed.  
  
"I have to go now," he said suddenly, getting to his feet. "I can't stay here any longer. I might do something to hurt you."  
  
He walked over to an open window, but paused before he climbed through it. "I'm sorry about everything, Gail. I don't want to go back to the ways things were, but I wish things had turned out better. For all of us." He looked down, and when he next spoke, his voice was almost normal, the way he used to sound. "I loved you, did you know that?" he asked her. She shook her head and Richie's mouth twitched a little. The corners fought to move upwards, and after a moment, Gail realized that he was trying to smile. "It's alright, it was my fault I never told you," he said. "I should have said something then, but it's too late now." His eyes were wistful as he looked at her fondly. Then he sighed and looked away, his eyes lost in darkness.  
  
"Tell Tom that I'll be at the circus," he said, his voice harsh again. "He's only got a day before the army comes to take me in, so he'd better hurry." He started to climb out the window when Gail called after him.  
  
"Wait!" she said, forgetting to keep her voice down. "Why does it have to be this way? Can't you turn yourself in or something?"  
  
"I'd never let anyone take me without a fight," Richie told her. "I can't help it, I'd have to fight. Tom and I, we're a little alike that way. He can't let the army try and take me, he's got to do it himself."  
  
"What if I don't tell him?" she asked. "He can't find out then and he'll be safe."  
  
Richie laughed and started to climb out the window. "You'll tell him," he promised her as he left. "Goodbye, Gail." She sat in her bed, listening as the wind blew through the window, rattling the charts at the end of the beds. They clattered against the sides of the bed, sounding like the rattle of bones. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling very cold and alone.  
  
"Goodbye, Richie," she whispered to herself. She started to cry bitterly, holding her sides, alone in the darkness. The other three patients slept on soundly through it all.  
  
Clark stared at the array of tools that Bruce had laid out on their kitchen table. There were a variety of chemicals from his mother's cabinets, an eight foot steel pole from the barn, a few knives he had scrounged out of drawers, and a particularly nasty axe with a hooked blade. "We use this to chop up roots, Bruce," Clark said, picking up the axe. "Are you really sure you want to use this?"  
  
"Before it became a garden tool, that was called a lochebar axe," Bruce explained. "They used it in the Dark Ages to shuck people out of their armor. I'm hoping I might be able to get the hook in Richie's leg, slow him down." He touched the point, frowning as he ran his finger along it. "I only wish it was sharper," he muttered.  
  
"And my bleach, ammonia, and floor soap?" Martha asked. "What are they for?" She picked up a canteen that Bruce had poured mixed them into and sloshed it around, experimentally.  
  
"Incendiaries," Bruce remarked off-hand. "Best to let the mixture sit for a bit, makes it safer to carry around. It burns almost as good as napalm." He seemed to think of something and looked up. "You know if we can reach my car, I might be able to salvage a few things from it. I'm pretty sure I actually have some napalm left over." Martha blanched and gently put the canteen back on the table.  
  
"Here, I might have something that could help," Jonathon said, coming downstairs. In his hands, he held the shotgun he kept up in the closet in case of emergencies.  
  
"Jonathon, no!" Martha said, seeing it. He ignored her and snapped the chamber open, checking the gun before he handed it over.  
  
"Now, I won't give this to you unless you promise me you're going to take him in alive," Jonathon said firmly. "This boy might have done a lot of terrible things, but he still deserves a trial. I want all three of you to come back alive, but if there's no other way." he trailed off. Clark stared at the gun, the cold meanness of it reaching him. If there was no other way. He shivered and tried not to think about it. He didn't want to kill anyone, not even Richie, despite everything he'd done. Still, if Richie wouldn't allow himself to be taken. Clark touched his side, remembering the burn of the cut, and the fear returned for a moment. Hating it, Clark pushed it back and shook his head forcefully.  
  
"No," he said. "I'm not going use that."  
  
"Me either," Bruce said, screwing the cap back onto the canteen. "I don't use guns, ever." Jonathon nodded and looked down at the shotgun.  
  
"That's nice to hear boys, but right now I feel like I'd almost pack you down with a bomb if it would bring you both home," he said, weighing the gun in his hands.  
  
"We'll come back," Clark promised him. His father nodded and leaned the gun against the stair post. The phone rang in the kitchen and Martha rushed off to answer it. "Anything else?" Clark asked his dad, feeling awkward and nervous.  
  
"Lose the jacket," Bruce commented from the table. Clark turned around and stared at him.  
  
"What's wrong with my jacket?" he asked, fingering the flannel cloth.  
  
"Nothing, unless you want to fight in it," Bruce muttered. "Just a shirt and loose-fitting pants, no jacket or any other nonsense. Nothing that could possibly hinder movement." He looked down at Clark's sneakers, frowning. "You have any work boots?" Clark lifted one foot, confused. "If you plan on kicking him, it would probably be a good idea to protect your feet," Bruce remarked.  
  
"I've got some steel toe work boots upstairs," Jonathon muttered and hurried up. Clark stripped his jacket off and threw it onto the couch.  
  
"Anything else?" he asked, a little irritated.  
  
"No, that's adequate," Bruce replied, hefting the steel pole absently.  
  
"Clark," Martha called, coming out of the kitchen. "It's Chloe, she says that Gail called her and she's looking for Bruce."  
  
"What now?" Clark said under his breath as he took the phone. "Chloe, what's wrong?" he asked quickly.  
  
"Richie, what else?" she replied on the other end. She sounded tired and upset, but her voice was steady. "Richie broke into Gail's room at the hospital tonight."  
  
"Oh my God! Is she alright?" Bruce looked up at Clark, alarmed.  
  
"No, she's alright," Chloe assured him. "She just called me a few minutes ago. She said he had a message for Tom- Bruce, I mean."  
  
"What about Gail?" Bruce asked quickly.  
  
"She's fine," Clark said to him, and then back to Chloe, "What is it?"  
  
"Is he really there with you?" Chloe asked. "Your mom told me he was, but how did you find him?"  
  
"He sort of found me," Clark replied. "But what's the message?"  
  
"Right, sorry," Chloe said quickly. "Richie said that he'd be waiting at the circus. He knows about the troops being called in, but he wants to see Bruce again. Clark, what's going to happen? Bruce isn't going to go, is he?"  
  
Clark glanced at the weapons on the table and tried to keep his voice level, "I'm not sure, Chloe. Look, I've got to go, is there anything else?"  
  
"Yeah, one more thing," Chloe said quietly. There was silence on the line then, and Clark thought for a moment that they had been disconnected.  
  
"Chloe?" he asked. "You still there?"  
  
"Yes, yes," she said, distracted. "I just wanted to say. be careful." Clark started at this, wondering for a moment.  
  
"Yeah," he said slowly, "I'll pass that on to Bruce."  
  
"No, I mean you," she said. "You be careful, Clark."  
  
Did she know? How could she, he asked himself desperately. "What do you mean, Chloe?"  
  
"I don't think a nuclear strike would be enough to keep Bruce out of there, and I somehow I just know you're going to go with him."  
  
Almost in a panic, Clark asked, "What makes you say that?"  
  
"Look, I know you're keeping a lot of things from us Clark," Chloe told him. "Pete and I, we both know something's up. We're not stupid you know; maybe we don't have it figured out, but we know there's something up with you. Too many things, about the meteor rocks, about this town, just don't make sense. And it seems like all the questions lead to you." Her voice was almost a whisper, but Clark didn't have any trouble hearing her. His ear was pressed so tightly against the receiver that he was surprised the phone didn't crumble in his hands. "I wish you'd tell us, but I guess that'll only happen when you're ready. So until then, we just have to keep guessing as you lie to us. Do you know how much that hurts, when we know you don't trust us with the truth?" she asked him with venom. "We're your friends Clark, your best friends, and sometimes I just can't figure out why anymore!" There was a pause, and when she spoke again, her voice cracked with grief. "Just don't get hurt, Clark!"  
  
"Chloe, I-" Clark started to say, but the line went dead as she hung up on him. He stared into the receiver, then put the phone back and walked away, into the empty dining room. He tried to think for a moment, but he couldn't help remembering the anger in her voice. Do they really think that, he asked himself. That I don't trust them? They're my friends; I trust them with everything.  
  
Except for one thing, of course.  
  
"Who was it?" Bruce asked him impatiently.  
  
"What? Oh, it was Chloe," Clark said distractedly. "Richie slipped into Gail's room and gave her a message for you. He said he'll be at the circus."  
  
Bruce stood still, waiting. "And Gail?"  
  
"She's fine, he didn't hurt her." Bruce nodded slowly, his fists unclenching. Clark noticed it and glanced back at him quickly.  
  
"You care about her, don't you?" he asked. The question seemed to catch Bruce off guard and for the first time, Clark saw him start to flounder.  
  
"I. I." He hesitated and then straightened up, his face decisive again. "I don't have room in my life for that," he remarked.  
  
"For friends? Or even someone you care about?" Clark asked him incredulously.  
  
"How many people do you trust with your secret?" Bruce countered. "I noticed that Chloe didn't know back at the hospital."  
  
"That's different. If they knew, it'd be dangerous for them."  
  
"People are in danger everyday of their lives, Clark. From the moment we're conceived we're at risk. They'd be targets, sure, if someone found out what you are, but they'd be that anyway, just by being close to you. I think what you're really frightened of is the risk to you of them knowing. They could take your secret and make a fortune, tell the world, send you off to a little lab in the middle of nowhere to be poked and prodded for the rest of your life."  
  
"Is that why you push everyone away from you?" Clark asked him angrily. "So you'll never have to face losing anyone else again?"  
  
Bruce stopped, glaring at him. Then he smiled sarcastically. "Touche," he replied. He hefted a full duffle bag and tossed it at Clark. "We'll take your car up to the circus," he said going on like nothing had been said. "Mine's still wrapped around a trailer." They walked back to the living room, where Clark's parents waited nervously.  
  
Her eyes gleaming with tears, Martha struggled to say something to her son, then simply hugged him fiercely. "Please, be careful," she whispered into him. Clark felt his knees weaken a little, but he steeled himself and hugged her back.  
  
"I will," he promised, knowing inside that going after Richie in itself, hardly qualified as careful. She hugged him tighter until Jonathon moved forwards to gently pry her away. "Dad," Clark said, looking into his eyes.  
  
"I know," he said quietly, and pulled Clark closer. "Do what you have to." Clark nodded and they separated. "Oh, here," his father said quietly, handing Clark the work boots. "Almost forgot." Clark nodded, bending down to pull his sneakers off.  
  
"Keys?" Bruce asked as Clark pulled on the boots. Martha held them out absently, keeping her eyes on her only son. "I'll bring it back in one piece," he promised her. "Him too," he nodded his head towards Clark. She turned and gave him a weak smile.  
  
"You be careful too," she told him. "And thank you for going with him."  
  
Bruce frowned, shifting his weight awkwardly. "Actually, it's the other way around; he's going with me. But you're welcome."  
  
"Don't go all sentimental there," Clark muttered as he finished lacing on the boots. Bruce gave him a look and then turned away, shaking his head. He walked out the front door, heading for the truck parked outside. Clark gave his parents one last glance, and then followed. He climbed into the driver's seat as Bruce tossed him the keys. Behind them, Jonathon and Martha watched from the porch, their arms linked together. Forcing himself not to look back at them, Clark started up the engine. Still, his eyes crept to the mirror and he caught himself giving his home one last look.  
  
"We're really going to do this, huh?" he asked out loud, his eyes on the mirror.  
  
Bruce's answer was a hard, mirthless grin. 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9  
  
"Stop the car, this is fine," Bruce said finally. It was the first thing he'd said since he'd gotten in. He sat up in his seat, staring out the windshield. "Yeah, this is far enough." Clark slowed and pulled the car off the road, turning off the lights as he did so.  
  
"Why? The circus is still a mile away," he pointed out. Bruce frowned and gave him a long-suffering look.  
  
"Do you even know what the word 'stealth' means?" he asked, rubbing his temples. "No, don't bother answering. I guess this is what happens when you think you're invulnerable," he muttered under his breath. Clark rolled his eyes and got out of the car, slamming the car door behind him. "Silently, please!" Bruce hissed at him as he climbed out. "Just cause the circus is a mile off doesn't necessarily mean that Richie is."  
  
Clark fought back the urge to scream at him. "So what now? We walk?"  
  
Bruce swung the duffel bag over his bag and shortened the strap so it was tighter against his chest. Then he reached into the back of the pick-up and hefted the metal pole. "Run, actually. He'll be expecting us to come by the road, driving in the front way." He looked around, scanning the area. "I think we should head into the fields," he pointed towards the wheat fields to their right with the pole. Beyond the field was the forest, like a vast, dark wall. "We'll stick to the tree-line and follow it up to the circus. Coming in from that side, we should be able to catch him unaware."  
  
"Should?"  
  
Bruce shrugged absently. "Strategy's not an exact science. Plenty of things could go wrong. There's even a very good chance that it's a trap."  
  
Clark let out a breath of air. "You're not an optimist, are you?" he asked sarcastically, heading into the field. Bruce passed him at a quick jog, laughter trailing behind him. Smiling to himself, Clark increased his speed a little and shot past him. Bruce's laughter stopped immediately and he settled into a run that Clark swiftly matched. They reached the trees and turned left, heading towards the circus. Staying back in the forest for shelter, they ran swiftly, Clark's sharp eyes letting him pick out any upturned roots or stumps that might trip a normal person up. At first he kept his eyes on Bruce's path as well, making sure the other boy didn't trip either, but Bruce didn't seem to need any help. He seemed to sense where the obstacles where and agilely avoided them.  
  
They ran in silence for several minutes, until the field tapered off beside them and they reached the start of the fair grounds. Bruce slowed and stopped easily, hardly looking winded at all. He crouched behind an overturned log and stared out at the grounds. Clark crept up next to him and quickly scanned the field with his x-ray vision. It was a strain to see through the trailers and focus in on them from so far away, but Clark kept at it. He swept the grounds back and forth several times, but there was no sign of Richie. "Do you see him?" Bruce asked quietly as he noticed what Clark was doing.  
  
Shaking his head, Clark closed his eyes, rubbing them gently. "No, either he's not there or somehow he's hiding."  
  
Bruce sucked in his breath in irritation and pointed towards the end of the road into the grounds. Clark could just barely make out a car that was parked in the shadows of the forest. "I guess the police left a guard here," Bruce whispered. Clark stared inside the car and winced suddenly. He pulled his gaze back and looked down at the ground.  
  
"They did," he said quietly, gritting his teeth.  
  
"Damn," Bruce snarled. "Any survivors?"  
  
"No."  
  
"How can you tell this far off? They could still be alive."  
  
"They're in half, Bruce." He stared at Clark and then his mouth twisted into a grimace.  
  
"I swear, I'm going to hook him to the back of your car and drag him off to jail," he promised.  
  
"You want any help with that?" Clark asked him.  
  
"Thought you'd never ask." Silently jumping over the log, he motioned Clark to follow him. They scurried, keeping low to the ground until they reached the safety of the first trailer. Bruce crouched underneath it, staring out between the wheels, looking for any activity. Clark pressed himself against the side of the trailer, listening intently. Aside from his rushed heartbeat, the night was silent, hardly an owl hooted in the forest. Breaking it, there was a sudden chittering of bats far off, but that hardly made him feel any better.  
  
Keeping his voice low, Clark asked Bruce, "Do you remember where you smashed your car?"  
  
"Fifty meters up and half that to the right," he answered in a voice that only carried a few feet. His eyes narrowed suddenly and he glanced at Clark. "How are you feeling? Any weakness?"  
  
Clark narrowed his eyes, and then shook his head. "Just nerves. But I have to be fairly close for there to be a reaction."  
  
"How close?" Bruce asked him.  
  
"Ten feet, maybe," Clark offered lamely. "Not enough for a warning."  
  
Bruce shrugged and scanned the trailers again. His face was taunt with emotion; excitement, fear, Clark couldn't tell. Regardless of either, he looked more alive now than he had ever before. Bruce noticed Clark looking and turned briefly, giving him that same half-grin from before. Then he stared out again, his face serious once more. He crept out from the trailer, keeping to the shadows as he moved. Clark followed him as best he could, envying Bruce's ability to move so easily in the shadows. Personally, Clark felt more exposed than he ever had. He could almost feel Richie's hands coming at him from behind, but every time he turned, startled, there was nothing there. Sweeping the field with x-rays hardly helped either. The other boy was nowhere to be found.  
  
If he sees us before we see him. Clark pushed the thought away with force. No, we'll find him, he promised himself. We have to.  
  
They covered the distance to the car in a few minutes, moving slowly, their eyes constantly searching around them. There was little to see; trailer doors swung open in the wind, the police had removed all the bodies, so all that was left were random splashes of dried blood on the grass or the trailer walls. It was like a ghost town, Clark thought, instantly regretting it. He tried to keep his mind sharp, listening intently to any sound that might warn them of danger, the scrape of Richie's skin against a trailer, the grass being crushed beneath his feet. But there was nothing. Nothing. Clark swallowed nervously and focused on Bruce, trying to remain as calm as he was. The other boy looked alert yes, but not worried.  
  
"Here we are," Bruce muttered as he crouched down beside the wreck of his car. The sedan was embedded in the side of a trailer up to the windshield. There was a wide tear down the center of the hood where Richie had ripped his way out. Both front doors were bent in their frames, jamming them into place. Bruce swung the duffel bag off his back and put it down by the wreck. He tugged on the back door, but it was jammed shut as well.  
  
"Terrific," Clark said, still looking around. Bruce frowned and then smashed the window in with his elbow. Clark jumped as the sound exploded behind him. "I thought you said to be quiet?" he whispered.  
  
"No other way," he said, clearing the rest of the glass out of the window with the pole. Then he set it down and reached into the car, rummaging about the backseat. He pulled a long cylinder case out and leaned it up against the car. Then he reached in again and pulled out two more bags, throwing them on the ground.  
  
"Are they really going to help?" Clark asked, glancing quickly. Bruce smiled and unzipped one of the bags to reveal a row of gleaming ninja stars sewed into the lining.  
  
"Can't hurt," he said, pulling out a black belt full of the stars. He latched it around his waist and pulled one of the stars off. "Us, I mean," he added, examining the edge.  
  
Clark smiled and turned around, bathing the area with x-rays again. As the world fell away, he saw a vague outline rush forward in the trailer right next to them. It was human shaped, but had no skeleton that would have stood out so noticeably. Suddenly there was a loud tearing sound and Clark dropped his x-ray vision just as a figure smashed through the trailer wall straight towards him. He saw a flash of Richie's face, snarling angrily, and then his breath rushed out of him as Richie buried his arm in his stomach.  
  
"Clark!" Bruce screamed, readying a star in his hands to throw.  
  
Clark was dead, he was sure of it. He looked up at Richie's face, stiff and set, but his eyes horribly gleeful, and Clark was sure it would be the last thing he would see. His vision swam and faded into gray, and then. he coughed. Clark hacked and sucked in air, righting himself. Blinking away tears, Clark was surprised to discover he could breath. He glanced up at Richie, and saw the boy's face just as puzzled. Then he looked down, expecting to see Richie's hand stuck through him, but instead his chest was fine. Richie's hand was extended, as sharp and pointed as any spear, but his fingers hadn't pierced Clark's skin.  
  
Slowly a smiled broke out over Clark's face and he glanced up at Richie. The other boy's mouth twisted into a snarl and swiped his hand at Clark's face. Catching it tightly, Clark tightened his fingers around Richie's arm, feeling the other boy's skin grate against his, but there was no pain. Marveling at it, Clark threw him back into the trailer. Richie hit it awkwardly and fell on his back, the air rushing out of him.  
  
"Clark?" Bruce said, rushing up beside him. He stared at Clark's stomach and then looked up at him, astonished. "What happened? He should've had you."  
  
"I know," Clark said, looking at Richie. This close to him, he should have been feeling weak and dizzy, but instead, incredibly, he felt fine. He glanced at his hand for the telltale reaction with the meteor rocks, but it was fine. "Yesterday I couldn't get near him, but now." he said, staring. The meteor rocks, he thought suddenly, staring at the three stones embedded in Richie's chest. Yesterday they had been glowing green, but now they were a dark gray. "The rocks must have worn off," he realized. "He can't cut me now."  
  
"I'm going to do a lot more than that," Richie screamed, launching himself at Clark again. Bruce snapped into a fighting stance, readying himself, but Clark stepped forwards. He swung his fist with all his might into the boy's gut. It felt as hard as stone, but it gave slightly and Richie staggered back, gasping. He tripped and fell backwards again, gulping in air.  
  
Bruce slowly relaxed and stared down at him. "Well this is a disappointment," he stated bitterly. Clark frowned at him and Bruce put up his hands deferentially, stepping back. "Hey, I'm glad you're still alive, but I was expecting something more. A fight, some action," he remarked. "I didn't expect things to go this easily." Clark started to answer him when he noticed a sudden whining in the air. With all the action, he hadn't noticed it until just now. Bruce heard it to then and craned his head upwards, listening. Then, over the forest, three military helicopters burst into view. Searchlights bathed the area as they flew overhead.  
  
"You just had to say it, didn't you," Clark yelled as the lights darted towards them. Bruce yanked Clark into the lee of a trailer and pulled him underneath it.  
  
"We can't let them see us," he yelled, making himself heard over the rotor noise.  
  
"I thought they weren't supposed to get here till tomorrow," Clark shouted back.  
  
"They must have been closer than we thought." Bruce started suddenly and grabbed Clark again. "Richie's still out there." Clark looked out from under the trailer, trying to find him. Then he saw him limping away by the far trailer. The helicopters bathed Richie in light and he stared up at them, snarling. There was a shot, and a bullet ricocheted off his leg, almost making him buckle. He cursed and broke into a run, moving with surprising speed. In an instant he was halfway to the forest. Two of the helicopters roared after him in pursuit, but the other broke off to circle through the grounds.  
  
"They're trying to bring him down," Bruce said, starting to climb out from under the trailer. "Bullets won't hurt him though. If he reaches the forest they'll lose him." Clark grabbed his leg and pulled him back in as another helicopter flew by overhead. "Let me go!" he said, yanking his leg back.  
  
"They'll spot you," Clark said, inching forwards. "Look, I'll follow him, they won't see me. You stay put until they leave," he yelled. Bruce frowned, and for a moment, Clark thought he wouldn't agree, but then he nodded.  
  
"Alright," he said bitterly, "but I'll follow you as soon as I can." Clark nodded and dashed out from under the trailer, running as fast as he could. He passed through the searchlight's beam, but he knew no one could see him moving at this speed. Clark reached the edge of the forest in seconds and dashed through, following after Richie.  
  
Trees rushed by him as Clark dashed through the forest. He hurtled over stumps and smashed his way through bushes, trying to follow Richie as best he could. It was almost impossible to see him in the darkness; even with his x-ray vision Richie was nothing more than an outline. The two helicopters whined overhead as their searchlights tried to pierce through the thick treetops. Clark pressed on though, and ran as fast as he could while still searching for Richie. Suddenly there was a gap in the tree line and the searchlights stabbed down just ahead of Clark, making him come to a screeching halt. Backing up, he suddenly heard a crashing sound to his right and spun around. A sapling shook slowly, its limbs almost torn off of it. Farther past it, Clark could hear more crashing sounds. "Richie," he said and followed quickly. The helicopters continued on behind him, heading off in the wrong direction.  
  
Richie must have been running scared, Clark thought as he dodged around a tree. He didn't seem to have any idea where he was going. Then again, Clark had to admit, moving at this speed, he wasn't even sure that he knew where they were now.  
  
Suddenly the forest ended and Clark ran onto an old farm field, now filled with weeds. He slowed down suddenly, glancing around to get his bearings. Then his stomach lurched and he stared down at his hand as it writhed. Specks of green light winked up at him from in between the weeds. The meteor rocks, he thought and then Clark realized where he was. Sure enough, he glanced down the field to see the abandoned foundry looming in front of him. It was the same foundry where he had fought Greg Arkin, who had been transformed into some kind of. man-spider by the meteor rocks. It was also one of the most heavily concentrated meteor rock locations in Smallville. Clark gasped and stared at the foundry, his breathing heavy from the run.  
  
If Richie wanted to fight him here, he couldn't have picked a better place, Clark thought grimly. Then he noticed the foundry's door swinging wide open. "Perfect," he muttered, and dashed towards it. Flashes of green winked out at him from the ground as he ran by grimly. As a child, he could never walk near this field without almost passing out, and now it was no different. His heart hammered in his chest as Clark continued, running for the foundry doors.  
  
He lurched inside and tried to catch his breath. The sickness was less in here, with piled up lead machinery blocking some of the rocks' effect, but it was still noticeable. Clark took a few hesitant steps forwards and then went flying as Richie tackled him from behind. Richie fought madly, clawing and ripping at him as they tumbled across the foundry floor. But despite the damage he had done to Clark last night, he couldn't pierce his skin now. With brute strength, Clark threw him off and started to climb to his feet, but Richie was quicker.  
  
Born and raised in a circus, he tumbled like an acrobat and threw himself at Clark again, knocking him down once more. Clark fell awkwardly and his cheek struck something hard. Suddenly his skin felt like it was burning and he screamed, flinching away in pain. It was another meteor stone, resting a few inches from his head. Before he could scramble away, Richie suddenly fell on top of him, his hands clamping around Clark's head and grimly forcing it down on the meteor rock. The sickness roaring through his head, Clark struggled against it, but his cheek was slowly forced down to the stone. Clark screamed as he touched it, and the pain gave him enough strength to throw Richie away. The boy smashed into a box of crates and disappeared in the rubble.  
  
Free, Clark scrambled away from the stone, his chest working like a bellows. He didn't know how much more of this he could take. Fighting back nausea, he climbed to his feet, staring around him again. He called out, "Richie! You have to give yourself up!" He staggered forwards, craning his head to search for him, not trusting his x-ray vision here.  
  
"I can't do that!" Richie called back from somewhere close. Clark turned around quickly, but he couldn't find him. He put his back to the side of a thick metal slab and waited, staring around. "I'm never going quietly again," Richie yelled and stepped out from behind a smelting pot. Clark started towards him, but then stopped suddenly as Richie held up a chunk of meteor rock in his hands. The rock glowed bright green and Clark felt its light lance into him.  
  
"This hurts you, doesn't it?" Richie said with a laugh. His voice was almost insane with intensity, his eyes gleaming. "You're like me aren't you? Different. Did they change you too?" he asked, but then shook his head, his muscles creaking. "No, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters to me anymore. I'm free," he said, his voice becoming a whisper.  
  
"We can get you help, Richie," Clark said quickly. "Doctors might be able to-"  
  
"To do what?" Richie interrupted. "To cure me?" He shook his head, mockingly sad. "I'm more than fine. And I'm not Richie anymore." He frowned and then his face lit up. "Call me. Shard," he said quietly. He laughed again and looked up at the meteor rock in his hands. Richie, or rather Shard, frowned suddenly and his face contorted. The light from the rock flickered and then slowly dimmed as the stones in his chest blazed into life. Throwing the drained stone aside, Shard flexed his fingers wickedly. His chest swelled and he smiled broadly. "That's much better," he said quietly. Clark edged away, the radiation hammering into him now, stronger than ever.  
  
Shard smiled and started to advance, his fingers mincing at his sides in anticipation. "Last time we tried this, something was a little off," he said quietly, swiping his hand down the side of a metal plate. Sparks flew around it as his fingers carved deep gashes down its side. "Let's just give it one more go, what do you say?" he asked. Suddenly there was a scream of metal and sparks from his right shoulder and Shard grunted in surprise. He plucked a badly bent metal star from his shoulder and stared at it, dumbfounded. "What the hell?" he muttered as three more struck his chest, flying off. Clark and Shard both started as they saw Bruce crouched on one of the old walkways overhead.  
  
"No matter what you call yourself," he said, "you're still the same pathetic waste you've always been. Richie."  
  
"Tom!" Shard yelled at him, turning away from Clark. "I was hoping for this," he said eagerly.  
  
"In a minute," Bruce promised him. He picked up the metal pole he'd brought with them from the farm. "Hey Smallville!" he called to Clark, and tossed the pole down to him. Clark caught it easily and leveled it at Shard. The other boy snarled at him, but then turned around again as Bruce dropped to the floor behind him. Rolling to avoid the shock, Bruce came to his feet clutching the same cylindrical package he'd grabbed from the car. It almost looked like an architect's design case, Clark wondered. Snapping the lid open, Bruce pulled out what was most definitely not blueprint though; it was a sword, a katana to be more precise. He unsheathed it and tossed the scabbard away with the rest of the case. The blade gleamed brightly and Shard took a step back, suddenly looking a little unsure of himself. "I thought this would even the playing field," Bruce said quietly.  
  
"Doesn't change anything," Shard muttered. He bent down, ready and waiting. "Anytime you're ready to die," he offered. Bruce smiled and advanced a few feet, holding the sword expertly. Shard swung at him angrily, but Bruce was still to far away. Fighting back the sickness, Clark held the pole tightly and circled around behind him, trying to get closer. Shard noticed him though and turned for a moment. It was then that Bruce struck. He leapt in close, the sword a glittering arc as he chopped at his arm. The blade sliced at it, but it only made a shallow cut on Shard's tough skin. Still, he screamed in pain or anger, and rushed at Bruce. Now it was Clark's turn, and he darted in to smash the pole into the small of Shard's back, sending him sprawling. Clark retreated back quickly from the radiation, and Bruce stepped forwards as he did so. He swung again, but this time Shard managed to twist away. Bruce followed him, slashing always at his arms and legs, trying to disable him. Clark darted behind them and threw his shoulder into a pile of scrap metal, sending it tumbling down onto Shard. Bruce leapt clear as the boy was pounded to his knees by the falling metal. Staggering up, Clark swung the pipe at him like a baseball bat and knocked him up and off his feet, sending him hurtling into the remains of an old conveyer belt.  
  
Clark rushed towards him, heedless of the danger, his vision swimming around him. Desperately, he swung the pole down on Shard, but the boy caught it and wrenched it away from him. Clark tried to jump away as Shard slashed at him, but he wasn't quick enough and Shard's fingers tore into his arm. Stumbling backwards, he tried to get away, but again, he wasn't fast enough. Shard's hand, pointed and as deadly as any spear, hurtled towards him, and this time Clark doubted that it would only knock the wind out of him. But then, there was a flash of steel and Shard pulled his arm back, clutching at his hand. One of his fingers fell to the floor and rolled away. There was no blood on the end of it; the severed end was as solid as piece of stone. Shard stared incredulously at the stump of his finger as Bruce stepped in front of Clark, shielding him.  
  
Shard shrieked in wordless fury and slashed savagely at Bruce, ignoring the sword totally. Bruce ducked the blow and answered with one of his own, chipping off pieces of Shard's skin, but he seemed beyond caring now. Like a maddened elephant, he charged Bruce, making him dodge back quickly. Bruce tried to parry some of Shard's slashes as best he could, but some couldn't block them all and in moments he was bleeding from several wounds. Then with a loud snap, Bruce's sword broke against Shard's arm and he fell back against the old gear lift for the smelting pot. Clark cried out as he saw Bruce fall. Shard yelled in triumph and thrust his hands down towards his neck, seemingly intent on decapitating Bruce. Gathering his strength, Clark threw himself at Shard in a tackle, feeling the skin grating off his forearms as he hit him. Bruce scrambled out of the way as Shard fell forwards, his arms going into the gear slots in the old machine. "Pull the lever!" Bruce yelled and Clark hurriedly threw it. Shard screamed suddenly as the abandoned machine rumbled to life one last time and the gears started to turn. He tried to yank his arms out, but they were already caught fast and the machine grinded down on them.  
  
Bruce and Clark stumbled back as the machine rocked on its supports, smoke and pieces of metal shooting out from it. Shard screamed again and the machine seemed to howl with him in a horrible whine of metal on metal. Then there was an awful tearing sound and Shard fell back, his arms broken away in stumps at his elbows. He stared at the ruins of his arms, his eyes boggling insanely. The smashed ends were completely solid and there was no bleeding from the end of it. He looked like broken statue, standing there in shock. Shard opened his mouth to scream again, but nothing seemed to come. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. The machine whined to a rest beside him, spitting out chunks of rock from its gears.  
  
For a moment, the only sounds were the two boys heavy breathing and the rumbling of the dying machine. Then slowly, Clark said, "Is he dead?" Bruce tried to stand, but his legs failed him, so he crawled over to Shard and touched his neck delicately. He frowned and stared down at him closely. Clark slowly pushed himself away from Shard, keeping his distance from the meteor rocks. "Well," he asked, wincing as his arms scraped against the floor, "is he dead?"  
  
"I don't think so," Bruce said hesitantly. "I can't feel a pulse, but he looks like he's breathing. He crawled back to Clark and sprawled out beside him. They lay there for a while, simply staring at Shard, Richie, a few meters away. Finally, Bruce said, "Not too bad. Not too bad at all." Clark looked at him like he was crazy, but then he couldn't help himself and he started to laugh helplessly. He hurt, he was still suffering from the rest of the meteor rocks in the area, but he was alive, Clark realized with joy. Bruce smiled and joined in after a moment.  
  
Still laughing, the two boys helped each other up, and then Bruce limped away to the open foundry door. "What are we going to do with him?" Clark asked, glancing back at Richie.  
  
"I think we can signal the helicopters out there and let them deal with him," Bruce said wearily. "I stashed one of the bags here before I climbed inside," he muttered and after a minute's search, he returned with a small flare gun. "We just have to be away from here before they arrive."  
  
"Don't expect me to carry you out," Clark joked. "I think the fastest I can manage is a hobble." He winced as the old wound in his side bit into his suddenly. It must have re-opened in the fight, he thought absently.  
  
"I thought you were faster than a speeding bullet," Bruce laughed, and then grunted in pain as he touched his one of his shoulders tenderly. "Tell you what, I'll race you," he said with that half-grin on his face. Clark smiled as Bruce raised the flare gun to the sky. "On your marks."  
  
"Get set," Clark laughed.  
  
"Go!" The flare shot upwards, illuminating the night, as the two boys lurched away at a half-run, half-limp. Their laughter mingled in the night as they made their way to the forest, across the fields. Far away, they could see the lights from the helicopters turn around and come around towards them. As they disappeared into the protection of the forest, the helicopters raced to the swiftly dying flare, converging on the foundry. 


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10  
  
"There, just flex your arm for me," the nurse said brightly. Gail set her face and slowly moved her bandaged arm back and forth to the nurse's delight. "Wonderful," she exclaimed and scribbled something down in her chart. "No pain at all?" she asked, and Gail shook her head, irritated. "That's good, it wasn't a very deep cut, but we were all so worried it might have damaged your muscles."  
  
"But I'm fine now?" Gail asked her hopefully. "I can leave?"  
  
"Of course," the nurse smiled and Gail gratefully started to climb out of her bed. "But we'd like to have a physical therapist look at you first," she added. "He'll be in here at about noon to see you."  
  
"But that's three hours away," Gail complained, sinking back into her pillows. "Can't I at least go see my dad in the meantime?"  
  
"I wouldn't recommend it," Bruce said from the doorway. Both Gail and the nurse jumped when they heard him. "The painkillers are starting to wear off and he's in a bit of a mood."  
  
"Tom!" Gail said, scrambling out of bed. She flung herself at him and Bruce caught her, looking surprised. She hugged him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder. He endured it for a moment, and then slowly, awkwardly, he hugged her back. Gail pulled back, looking up at him with tears in her eyes. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Someone told me the visiting hours," he smiled back at her. "Oh, before I forget," he said and reached inside his jacket. Brining out a small, wrapped package, he offered it to her with a bow. "For the healing madam."  
  
Gail laughed helplessly and quickly ripped open the wrapping. "Oh my God!" she said, staring at it, "white chocolate!" She tore open one of the bars and took a bite. "That you so much," she smiled heavenly, drifting back to her bed.  
  
"Still a sweet tooth," Bruce laughed, following her. He sat down on the corner of her bed as she flopped back onto it. "I thought about flowers, but then realized what you probably were missing more," he said. She took another bite, nodding in agreement. She mumbled something through a mouthful of chocolate, completely intelligible. "I'm sure," he muttered, shaking his head.  
  
"Well," the nurse said quietly, hiding a smile, "I'll just leave you to alone now." She started to leave, when she paused and looked at Bruce carefully. "Excuse me, do I know you?" she asked slowly. Bruce winced and turned away slightly.  
  
"I don't think so," he offered lamely. Gail smiled into her chocolate.  
  
"Oh, I know," the nurse said brightly. "You're that boy from the circus attack! The one we had restrained in the other- oh!" she stopped suddenly. "Oh!" she gasped, staring at him, alarmed.  
  
"No, it's alright," he told her. "I'm fine now." He gave her a winning smile and nodded happily to prove it. She smiled back tentatively and backed up towards the door.  
  
"Well, that's good," she said quietly, feeling for the doorknob behind her. "I'm glad to see your feeling better." She found it and yanked the door open. "I guess I'll be going now, again," she added quickly and dashed out the door. Bruce frowned as the door slammed shut behind her.  
  
"Do you always have to have that effect on people?" Gail asked. Bruce cocked an eyebrow at her and then rolled his shoulders, easing some muscles around. "That's the plan," he said, flexing his shoulders absently. Something popped in his back as he did so and he sucked in his breath quickly. He bent and turned slightly, rubbing the small of his back with one hand. As Gail watched him, her smile faded quickly.  
  
"Any pain?" she asked sympathetically.  
  
"Some," he admitted, "but nothing I can't manage. Don't be so worried," he told her, catching her look, "I actually got off pretty easy. Clark winces every time he breathes and I think his vision's still a little off, but he won't admit it."  
  
"So he helped you after all. I wasn't sure he was going to do it," she remarked softly.  
  
"Hmph," Bruce breathed, looking at her sharply.  
  
"What?" she asked, starting to smile again.  
  
"I heard about that. Now what would make you think that Clark could possibly help me?" he asked her carefully.  
  
Gail frowned and answered, choosing her words carefully, "I saw him fight Richie, and he seemed. strong."  
  
"He is. strong. Can't say I'm glad you asked him," Bruce said gruffly, "but." his voice trailed off. "It didn't turn out so bad. Not in the end."  
  
"What about for Richie?" Bruce's face lost his warmth gradually, and something hard and cold seemed to fill it. Even though she'd known him for years, suddenly Gail felt confused and frightened. She didn't know this person, she realized, whoever it was.  
  
"Richie made his choice," Bruce stated, his voice lower and stronger than she'd ever heard it. It seemed too strong for Bruce's body, it came from his mouth, but it seemed to originate from something else, something bigger. "He made his choice, and he has to live with it now. For the rest of his life."  
  
"What happened to him?" Gail frowned and toyed with the candy in her hands. "I heard that he was arrested, but where did they take him? It's not like he can just go to jail or anything."  
  
Whatever was in Bruce faded and vanished, leaving him looking only sad and weary. "The army took him somewhere. I figured that was the best for him. You're right, no normal prison could ever hold him. If there is a cure, I figured they'd be the ones to find it." He sighed and then smiled at her. "Let's not talk about though. I spoke to your dad, he says to stop bothering him, and that he's fine."  
  
Gail laughed and gave him a critical look. "He would say that even if he wasn't." She took another bite of chocolate and savored the flavor. "I can't wait until we get back on the road. Oh," she said, looking up again, "the circus! Who's going to run it now that. you know," she trailed off.  
  
"Your dad's been talking with a few others and they're going to finish out the year as best they can, running the circus together. After that," he shrugged, "who knows. He said he might take some time out to rework the act. Not that it needs it."  
  
"You can always improve," Gail said seriously and he laughed. After a moment, she joined as well. "Sorry," she said, wiping a tear from her eyes, "I don't know what made me say that."  
  
"You sounded just like your dad then, so serious." She blushed and looked away. "It's true," he told her. "I know you two are going to better than ever now." He tried to say it off-hand, gauging her reaction carefully. She froze, the chocolate halfway to her mouth. Bruce winced and said quickly, "I meant to tell you earlier, I'm not coming back with you."  
  
She turned away from him on the bed, staring at the wall. "Why not?"  
  
Sighing, hating himself for saying it, but saying it nonetheless, "I'm done here. There's nothing more that I need from your father." She didn't answer immediately and he went on, trying to soften the blow. "I enjoyed living with you two; it was like being part of a family again. But," he hesitated, "I can't live like that. There's still a lot more that I have to learn."  
  
"You could learn it with us," Gail said quietly. "You're good, but you're not perfect yet. You could-"  
  
"You could teach me more," he overrode her, "but what I need, I can't get here." She turned back to him, her eyes brimming with tears. As she stared at him he felt some of his shields, so carefully crafted over the years, slip and he didn't care. Everything that he felt, but couldn't say, was in his eyes and she saw it all. Gail breathed out, her sigh somewhere between awe and sadness. Bruce tried to speak, but his tongue seemed to be stuck in his mouth. "I can't have a normal life," he forced out finally. He reached out and touched her cheek fondly; the first time he had touched her like that before. "I wish I could, but."  
  
"Don't say that!" she yelled, but didn't move her face away. She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her cheek. "Whatever it is, just forget about it! Let it be someone else, please," she breathed, starting to cry. Bruce looked at her sadly, and then leaned over and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes and tears rolled down her cheeks. Bruce gently pulled his hand away and stood up, looking down at her. For a moment, he wanted to tell her everything, but he knew she wouldn't understand. She would sympathize, relate to it, but she could never understand. Even Clark couldn't grasp it. What he'd told him had been true, his parents' murder had given him focus and direction, had pointed out the truth to him, but his life had been decided long before that. They could never understand that what drives a person is not what tragedies they endure, but something greater, something that is there from the very beginning.  
  
"We are what we are, Gail," he said quietly. "And someday I'll become what I have to." He turned around and walked to the door. He paused before he left, and half-turned back. "Goodbye," he whispered and closed the door behind him. She didn't look up in response.  
  
Clark was waiting by his father's truck outside the hospital, looking slightly worse for wear. There was a nasty bruise on one side of his face and a number of small cuts on his chin. When he noticed Bruce, he ran forwards to meet him. Before he reached him however, Bruce took a pair of sunglasses out and slipped them on. "How'd it go?" Clark asked him as he neared. "How'd she take it?" Bruce ignored him at first and started walking back to the car, his hands in his jacket pockets.  
  
"That bad, huh?" Clark asked, falling in step beside him. "How are you dealing?" he asked, eyeing Bruce carefully.  
  
"I'll get over it," he remarked laconically. They were walking away from the car, but Bruce didn't seem to care. He walked on, his face set stoically, not acknowledging Clark at all. Clark was tempted to stare through the sunglasses, but decided not to. If Bruce wanted to talk, he would; there wouldn't be any forcing him.  
  
"I've decided to take Lex up on his offer," Bruce said finally, surprising Clark.  
  
"What offer?" he asked, confused.  
  
"He offered me a sizable share in his plant here, in return for some funding, he's willing to 'teach' me about how to run a business," Bruce explained, staring off in the distance.  
  
"I guess that's great," Clark said slowly, not sure how he felt about Bruce staying in Smallville.  
  
"Don't sound so excited," Bruce remarked, catching the tone in his voice. "It'll only be a temporary thing, I already know how to run a business."  
  
"The circus teach you that to?"  
  
"No," he laughed, "I apprenticed myself to some of the world's leading economists and former business moguls. All confidential of course."  
  
"In addition to learning karate and being an escape artist," Clark rolled his eyes.  
  
"Don't forget judo, kung fu, jujitsu, ninjitsu, gymnastics, Greco-Roman wrestling, hunting, detective work." he went on.  
  
"Alright!" Clark said, stepping in front of him. "If you already know about it, why take Lex's offer?"  
  
"Because I like it here," Bruce remarked. "It's interesting. Things happen here that I would never find anywhere else in the world. It's the perfect proving ground."  
  
"Proving ground?" Clark asked him.  
  
"Do you know what I found out after all my studying and training?" Bruce asked. "That even with all that, I still felt as unprepared as when I first began. I'm not ready yet," he said, a trace of bitterness in his voice. "There's something not right, something missing. I don't know what it is, but maybe I can find out here. That is," he smiled, "unless you have something against me sticking around for a little while longer?"  
  
"No, of course not," Clark said quickly. Bruce smiled, glancing away.  
  
"I guess I'll have to find a room somewhere," he muttered. "You know any good motels around here?"  
  
"I don't know," Clark said reluctantly, his better half forcing it out, "you could always stay with us."  
  
Bruce glanced back at him, his eyebrows peaking over the rims of his sunglasses. "No thanks," he said quietly. "As good as your mom's food is, I wouldn't feel right staying there." Clark sighed inwardly in relief; he hadn't been sure what he would have said if Bruce had accepted.  
  
"So you'll be working with Lex," he remarked, mulling it over.  
  
"Keeping an eye on him is more like it," Bruce muttered.  
  
"Don't tell me you buy into to all those rumors too," Clark complained. "You sound just like my dad."  
  
"Then he's a wise man," Bruce said. "The stories about me are all true, but only because I needed them to be. Lex did the same kind of things because he wanted to. Oh he's cleaned himself up a lot now," he admitted, "but frankly, that only makes me trust him even less."  
  
"What's the matter with him then?"  
  
"I don't know," Bruce said, looking thoughtful. "There's no real reason for me not to like him, it's just a gut feeling. Part of it might be that he's desperate to get back at his father. He lives to spite him, even before he came here."  
  
"Yeah, Lex and his dad don't exactly get along. But you can't hold that against him. Lex's dad has his own issues."  
  
"Hmph." Bruce shrugged and started back to the car. "If Lex wants to go after his father, I suppose that's his own business. But if he expects me to help, he's in for a rude surprise. Childhood resentment isn't enough of a motive for going up against Lionel Luther."  
  
"You sound almost worried," Clark teased him.  
  
"You obviously don't know him," Bruce remarked dryly. "Lionel's ten times more heartless than Richie ever could be. I've heard horror stories that pale next to his corporate takeovers. His father will gut him and hang him out to dry, and it probably won't bother him in the slightest. But," he shrugged, "best of luck to Lex if he wants to compete with his old man. Who knows, he might even do it. Here's hoping he actually read Nietzsche though," he said under his breath.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Oh, it's just an old quote," he explained. " 'Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster.' I guess it applies to us too," he laughed harshly. 


	11. Epilogue and Author's Note

Epilogue  
  
The lab was cold, stinking of antiseptic and another peculiar smell, something like a minty oil. Lex wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Does it have to smell this bad," he asked one of the technicians. Behind him a balding man in a military uniform nodded in agreement.  
  
"Sorry," the aide apologized swiftly. "We've been trying to keep the room free of any outside containments, there's no telling what the specimen's reactions to them could be."  
  
"He lived in the damn woods for two days," the balding man snarled, "I don't think a few germs are going to hurt him."  
  
"You never can tell," the aide shrugged. "We're dealing with a completely unknown specimen here. Physically, there's nothing like him we've ever encountered before. His body's more crystalline now than anything else. Yes, his increased density could make him immune to bacteria and diseases it's true, but we'll need time to study him. His cell structure has been completely altered beyond recognition and the computers are going to spend months unraveling his DNA strands. He could become a field in himself," he said almost absently.  
  
"He wasn't immune to whatever chopped his arms," the older man said gutturally.  
  
"Oh, I forgot to mention that, his arms are healing themselves."  
  
"Excuse me?" he demanded.  
  
"His arms," the aide said pointing. "The tissue's healing; he's slowly reforming them, like I said, much like a crystal. It's fascinating; we don't really know where or what he's synthesizing it from. Probably from his foods; vitamins. nutrients." his voice trailed off.  
  
Lex leaned in closer to the plate glass window. Through it, he could see the lone occupant of the cell, strapped down in his harness. Doctors moved freely around him, taking samples and readings. "Are they safe in there?" he asked.  
  
"Oh, of course." The aide pointed to the harness that sat in the middle of the cell like a medieval pillory. The specimen's arms and legs were encased and protected in clear containers filled with a dark green gel. "The harness is a titanium alloy and the canisters are laced with a carbon compound similar to diamonds. Plus, the gel is a special kinetic absorber; he literally can't move an inch in it. It's also the cause of that smell you were complaining about," he added offhand, "but I think we can all put up with it, rather than the alternative."  
  
The other man grunted and stared into the cell. "I appreciate your father taking care of the set-up of this lab, Mr. Luther," he said, "but I'd feel more comfortable if he didn't plan on keeping him in such an. open environment."  
  
"You call an isolated science lab an 'open environment', General?" Lex asked, amused. "There's not another town for miles, we're surrounded by the latest in surveillance and security forces at my father's disposal, and we have a healthy supply of your troops at our disposal. I don't know, but I'd say this is a fairly secure location."  
  
"You know what I mean," he said, glancing quickly at the specimen. "Look at those people in there, they're not even paying attention to him. Do they know what he could do if he got loose?"  
  
"We're very aware of the specimen's capabilities, General," the aide said a bit stiffly.  
  
"Oh really?" the General asked sarcastically. "You've seen the videos then, the bodies of all those people he carved up with his bare hands? I'm not talking about raw data, I'm talking about just how sick and violent that thing really is. If he got half a chance."  
  
"You let my father worry about that General," Lex smiled. "It's his facility and employees, so if everyone gets turned into cold cuts, it's his problem." The aide blanched and looked away. "Don't worry," Lex assured him. "Everything going to go just fine. You'll see," he promised him. He leaned forwards and let his head rest against the glass as he stared in. "I've got everything in hand," he whispered.  
  
"Don't you mean, your father does?" the General asked. Lex's grin grew even wider as he watched the activity around the specimen.  
  
The scientist moved around him without care, hardly taking any notice unless one of their coats brushed too close to his skin and parted neatly. That was alright, it didn't matter. Absently, he watched the men outside his cell talking, deciding his fate. Like they had any power over it, he wanted to laugh. He was caged, but he knew better than anyone that you can't keep something caged forever. He had, after all, loved and watched an escape artist all his life. Strapped into the harness, Shard waited and watched, his face a mask for the swirling rushes within. He wanted to scream, to shout at them, to struggle against this harness, but with a mental strength he hadn't known he possessed, he kept quiet. He wanted to be free, and he would be, he promised himself, his face not betraying an iota of his need. If he kept still and quiet, they would forget about him, forget who he was. Everyone had always ignored Richie, so he would be Richie now, quiet. harmless. safe. But someday soon, he'd get his chance. Shard would get his chance. Soon.  
  
*Author's Note: Well, I hope if you got this far, that you liked it. This was my first Smallville fanfic, written primarily because I wanted to see Batman in Smallville and to see a great fight with Clark and Bruce working together. A lot of people have responded already and a few mentioned that they don't think they LIKE Bruce in this. Well, good, I say. Bruce doesn't want to be liked. He doesn't want sympathy or friendship either, at least on the surface. And when he's around Clark, he just gets worse, probably because Clark reminds so much of what he lost and could have had. They may end us as somewhat friends here, and as adults they may just barely be able to stand each other, but eventually these two guys are going to come to blows. Read the Dark Knight Returns by Frank Miller if you want to see what I mean. That's all, I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. 


End file.
